


The Separated, The Marooned

by xziris



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: (Chuckles) Simmons is in danger, Brainwashing, Canon Divergence, Chorus Trilogy (Red vs. Blue), Hurt and comfort, M/M, POV Alternating, Separation, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 35,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23877181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xziris/pseuds/xziris
Summary: After crashing on Chorus, the transport vessel is split in half after misdeeds that are DEFINETLY NOT linked to the Reds and Blues, at all. Nope, not one bit. Thankfully all the cast of lovable idiots were together at the crash site, right? Not like Simmons got torn away, found by space pirates, and forced to become a weapon against the group of idiots who were lucky enough to best Project Freelancer. Right?
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 116
Kudos: 116





	1. Crash Site Alpha

**Author's Note:**

> “There’s a million ways to fuck with fate. You justify what you need.”  
> -Hand Habits, ‘yr heart’

His head killed, his ears rang, and his body felt pulled apart. Still, he made desperate attempts to talk through the radio, calling out for anybody. If there was a response, he’d be utterly fucked in hearing it, but at least he’d contacted someone. Anyone. Please, he was on board the... whatever it was, the ship crashed, they’re stranded. Send help, whoever’s out there. Was he even broadcasting to an open channel? Was he even using the radio? Was the radio working? He couldn’t see anything, he didn’t know anything.

Simmons stayed as still as he could, trying to regain any sense he had left knocking around his head. While numb, he could tell he was on his stomach. In the dirt, probably, but that wasn’t important. He was in full armour, a bit of mud was nothing. Right? He’s okay, Sarge is millimetres away probably complaining about the state he was in. Right? And Grif would also be on the floor, using it as an excuse to nap. Right? They were just by him, he just couldn’t see or hear them.

“Grif?” Simmons choked out, still blinded by the state his helmet was in. He used every last bit of energy and pushed himself off the ground to his knees. The blood he had left flooded back to his body within seconds, and he almost fell back down. He tried moving his arms, but he couldn’t feel his left. It wasn’t the usual oh-it’s-a-cybernetic-arm inability to feel. It had been ripped right off, he knew it.

“Sarge?!” Simmons called out, using his remaining hand to pull his helmet off. It was a clumsy endeavour, but at least he could see now. The dust around him began to clog his throat, but the air filters somewhere in his respiratory system fended for him. Taking two deep breaths, he looked around him. Wreckage, rubble, debris. No Red team. No Blue team. No Freelancers. No AI. Just...

Just the rest of the crew dead and between the shrapnel of a crashed spacecraft. Simmons gagged, trying to haul himself up but collapsing again. That’s right, imbalanced. He looked down at the missing arm, and while seeing wires and leaking fuel wasn’t the same as seeing bone and blood, he still flinched. Well, as it is still technically a part of him, he allowed the grief to be a reasonable reaction.

Nobody around him was alive. His team... they were probably dead too. He stared at the ground, and let himself cry. He wasn’t ready for this, not at all. Please, oh please, let them be somewhere else. He grabbed his helmet, saw the cracks in the visor, and almost threw up. Simmons should’ve been dead, shouldn’t he? Died alongside the rest of the crew, the rest of his team.

He threw the helmet to the floor, and it rolled away. His armour was starting to suffocate him, but he couldn’t just strip. What if this was a joke? Yeah, Simmons thought, the crew would get up and laugh while Grif walked through the tattered halls of the ship to reach him. And then they’d argue, make up, and end up arguing about something less important but bring it to a bigger scale. Like... using Simmons’ toothbrush.

“Hello?!” He called out once again, hopefully. “Please, it’s not funny! Please!”

The silence taunted him senseless. Simmons’ mind tried to get him to hyperventilate, but the metal lungs were stronger than that. Half wondering if he should grab a big of wrecked ship and beat himself to death, half wondering how different it would be if his team was with him. It would not be any different, not really, but Sarge would blame the Blues and both Tucker and Simmons would get a rise out of that (and part of Simmons wanted to go ‘bow chicka bow wow’ to himself, how sad) and Grif would roll his eyes and Caboose would laugh and Wash would remind Sarge in his strained voice that there is no war between either teams, how many times does it have to be said-

“Hello?!” He called out again, begging now. Begging for any member of the crew to be alive, somewhere, anywhere. Please, oh please.

Nobody was here, and Simmons shook all thought from his already overthinking mind. He was shaking now, not shivering, because if he was shivering then his entire left half would try to warm him up because Sarge was stupid - or intuitive (but Sarge isn’t here, so he doesn’t have to suck up, so it’s stupid) - enough to believe that if Simmons was ever cold, he’d be dying, so built the system that would try to save him from freezing, but this was a dumb idea - or quick thinking (but Sarge isn’t here, so...) - as Simmons is naturally cold and wears six layers in summer sometimes which is what Grif always comments on and-

A voice snapped him out of it.

“Someone’s there!” The voice said, to which Simmons perked up instantly. He wiped his face with his hand, though the armour protecting it just smeared it around.

“Hello?!” He called out again, stupidly. “I don’t- I don’t know where I am, and- and I cant move!”

“Hang on son, we’re coming!” The voice called back, and Simmons let his guard down.

He grabbed his helmet, fumbled to put it on again, and sighed shakily. He remembered Donut was still in Valhalla, he’d still have him. They’d get him out and drop him back off where he came from. Simmons deflated and stared at the darkness of his visor. It was the least he could do, honestly, to keep himself sane. Hidden, but not tucked away from his rescuers. What a contradiction, he thought as footsteps came running, what a strange place he’d found himself.

“Richard Simmons? One of the folks who took down Project Freelancer?” The voice from earlier asked, closer now.

“Yes, th-“ how did they know his name? He didn’t get time to process it, Simmons couldn’t even finish his sentence.

He was hit in the back of the head.


	2. Distractions In The Back Of A Truck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Oh how the birds forget to sing, do they know where I have been?”  
> -Agnes Obel, Stone

He deducted that it had been five minutes, more or less, considering he hadn’t died. Simmons would always be the one to point that sort of stuff out in films, and Donut would always be the one to say that it doesn’t matter because it isn’t real. The protagonist would be knocked out for hours, and would wake up somewhere that would have taken even longer to get to. Considering kidnapping is illegal, the perpetrators would want to adhere to road safety laws as much as possible to take away suspicion, but that would be as far as he would get away with before the entirety of Red Base would tell him to shut up. In unison.

He shouldn’t be thinking about them, so he tried to stop. And hey, maybe, if Simmons’ luck finally came up Simmons, this wasn’t actually real. However, Simmons’ luck was 10-90 odds that he was going to have a shitty experience, so he didn’t have much hope.

Simmons noticed the second he came to that he could see, which was a strange observation to make, but seeing as it was dependent of a vital piece of armour being on or off; it was an okay thing to note. The second thing he was aware of was that his legs were bound, and for a moment he asked why not his arms. The third thing he caught on to was the bickering idiots up front, he instantly didn’t want to think about them anymore. Then, by stringing information together: he was in the back of a cargo vehicle alongside nothing more than crates and supplies and remnants of the crashed ship.

Curling up into himself, mainly to avoid the toppling cargo from a sharp turn, Simmons absentmindedly went to rub at a sore spot on his ear. It had been rough skin for a long while now, so it became prime anxious habit. Before the ear, it was the eczema scar on the side of his neck, before that it was the back of his earrings. He made the damn things loose, so he couldn’t wear them anymore without it irritating him. It was the only pair he brought with him, ruining them both over the course of Blood Gulch. And with that, the hole in his ear had now healed over.

Simmons was finding pointless things to fixate on, but he was facing the unknown after been captured, so a distraction was probably necessary. He always fixated on pointless things anyway, like the way the bags under his eyes hadn’t faded since he was fourteen, or his dead tooth, or the way the scarring around the metal plating never stopped being uncomfortable, it just got tolerable. Things he hated were therefore pointless, because insecurity is weakness and Simmons is not weak.

The car came to an abrupt halt and a box hit Simmons’ leg. The background voices he’d cancelled out were no longer there, Simmons was left alone. While Simmons was not weak, he was also not dumb, he knew they weren’t far. They could easily take an amputee, especially an unarmed one. Instead of untying his legs, he dwelled in silence and tried not to think about the Reds and Blues, but seeing as they inhabited every second of absent thought, it was ridiculously hard to do. Therefore, he forced himself not to think of them, and by doing that just thought about them more.

Okay. Maybe he was a little dumb.

He guessed it was time for a plan of action, to get through this situation. Because this was quite the predicament. Surely he must have picked up on how weird it was that people were already at the wreck, and he absolutely knew how strange it was that said people knew his name. And what he did. What crazy-ass planet was he on, what had he ended up with. He wanted to go back to Valhalla, but did he want to be with Donut, Doc, and Lopez? Yes, he decided after the experience of being in the back of a truck, he would prefer them to nothing.

He’d have to tell them though, and Simmons could barely face it himself. He was on the brink of crying again, but he just couldn’t bring himself to. He was still dizzy, and his lungs had the phantom feeling of being filled with dust. Selfishly, he wanted someone else to be back here with him. Just someone alive, someone who could squeeze his hand and tell him that they were there for him. Grif came to mind, but Grif wouldn’t hold Simmons’ hand. He’d call him an mildly mocking name for being in such an emotional state, and Simmons could honestly say that would be more comforting.

Grif wasn’t the type of person to really initiate physical comfort, but Simmons knew he waited until the other person to pull away once they came to him for it. Not that Grif and Simmons really touched each other much, more arm brushes and hair ruffles, high fives and fist bumps, pinky promises and poking matches. And a lot of the time during those moments, they didn’t even need to say a thing.

He couldn’t remember his last words to Grif, which was not a good sign. It was probably insulting, or pointless, or both. Some petty argument, some run of the mill bickering. Sarge would’ve called it pillow talk, and oh no, now he couldn’t remember his last words to Sarge. He couldn’t remember his last words to any of them. What if they’d all been scathing? What if their last memory of Simmons was that he hated them? And they died with that thought, there was no way of changing it. Grif wouldn’t have thought that, because he was the one who hated Simmons, not the other way around, which wasn’t that reassuring but he wanted Grif to know that he did actually like him, so he wasn’t dead thinking that they were barely friends, but he did, and now his best friend is dead without knowing that he was Simmons’ best friend.

With his mind spiralling, it was easy to miss the back of the truck being opened. However, it was hard to miss the black bag shoved on his head, and a pair of hands dragging him out by his feet. Simmons was on the floor again, yet only for a second, until he was grabbed by the torso and pulled along. It would’ve been easier for them to untie his legs, Simmons refrained from informing them, as there was nothing for him to really fight with or for.

Part of him didn’t want to die, but a part of him wished they’d just shoot him and get it over with. For the love of fuck, Simmons sighed under the mask, why must they drag out the inevitable? It was going to happen eventually, so why the gay and hearty?

Simmons was brought to a halt. His head still span, and the pain in his temples was relentless. In a matter of what felt like a second, Simmons was de-blindfolded, untied, pushed into a room, and locked in there. There was no light. No windows. Just a small room, and Simmons really was thankful that his robotic eye could see in the dark. There would barely be enough room for him to lie down, and he cursed “having his knees at average height” (an analogy by Tucker, who was cursed to have the smallest stature of the entire squad, and obviously targeted relentlessly).

So he wasn’t dead. But everyone else was, bar those at Valhalla. Maybe he should’ve pieced together now what was going to happen, why he was kept alive and in isolation. But all Simmons could do, with his knees up to his chest, was sit with his back against the wall, staring at a locked door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two! :D I hope you enjoyed, and continue to read! This is the first time people are actually reading an RvB work of mine, so I need to refine characterisation; if it’s a bit jumbled then I’m sorry! I hope you stick with me as I iron out some creases! :P


	3. For Lack Of Better Words: Homesickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for knives at the end of the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Juno was mad, he knew he’d been had, so he shot at the sun with a gun.”  
> -Tally Hall, Ruler Of Everything

Simmons, if anything, missed the time and date function in his helmet. Handily displayed on the bottom left corner of his visor, and being that only he reset it depending on location: it was a nice conversation starter. Yet he couldn’t tell the time. All he could do was keep his eyes on the door. So he did, expectantly. He’d recently heard footsteps stop nearby, not liking how accustomed to them he’d become. Something about it was too quick, too willing. If he knew the sounds of people standing guard, then he was already in too deep. It was quite a simple conclusion, but one that made Simmons’ stomach tie itself into a knot a few times over. The only positive outlook on the take is that hey, now he could learn the shifts and tell the time that way. 

No, that was a whole new level of lame. What he really needed was something else to do, keep him preoccupied from trapping himself in his own head. Inevitable, really, because now he had time to properly simmer on everything. And nobody should never let their head get the best of them, even if they’re an expert on emotional regulation.

The door opened, and Simmons blinked at the change of lighting. Instinctively trying to make himself appear smaller, he watched on as two figures appeared either side of the doorway. Looming, but he could tell they weren’t holding guns. He was already shaking, flinching as they leaned in to grab at him. Hands grasped his armour plating, pulling him up with unnecessary strength. With this, his head whirled at the sudden movement. Stars spun before his human eye, and if he had room he’d probably start toppling over.

“Say a word, and I’ll slit your throat before you even realise what you’ve done,” an unfortunately intimidating voice spoke, to which Simmons nodded meekly.

Simmons was starting to get annoyed at being escorted from place to place. He wasn’t a highly wanted criminal. At least he was able to walk now, albeit not very efficiently. His legs were dead from sitting in one position for what he assumed was more or less a day. There wasn’t enough room to really stretch out, and it was too cramp to stand. His armour made it more difficult; suffocating and heavy. Part of him wondered why they hadn’t taken the plating off of him, but the other part reasoned that they probably didn’t care.

He cared. Wanted it off. Every time he’d looked at it, it drove him insane. The colour maroon led to the rest of the colours he knew. Maroon, orange, red, pink, brown. Maroon, orange, red, pink, brown, purple. Maroon, orange, red, blue, light blue, cyan, grey. Maroon, orange- orange. Orange armour, orange visor, orange laughter. It didn’t even feel like a word anymore, Simmons had repeated it so much. Too used to just looking over and having someone to share a sarcastic look with, too used to just having him there. He missed them all, but... there’d always be something about Grif, wouldn’t there? 

You’d ask where Grif was when you wanted to talk to Simmons because, to Grif’s dismay, they never were too far apart. They were really the only ones either of them actually got along with, as much as they bickered. Situational companionship, that’s what Grif called it. Sure, they didn’t particularly mind the rest of the team, but they’d always come crawling back to each other eventually. They’d sit in silence until someone thought of a bizarre question, something to complain about, or a funny thing they’d thought of. Stories, jokes, ideas. They’d share the idea if they’d had it. And when you’re doing nothing in a boxed canyon for years, you tend to have a lot of ideas. 

Simmons smiled sadly, but then repressed it immediately. He and his guards were approaching a door, and Simmons did not want to know what was behind it. This was worse than being blindfolded, because with the bag on he’d at least lacked the unfortunate anticipation of going into a room. Now he knew for sure something was going down, nobody took prisoners on walks for no reason. He squeezed his eye shut, but could still see everything.

Pushed into the room, Simmons stumbled on his bad legs. Nothing compelled him to fall, even if he felt like he should’ve. Would it be more fitting to have him cower on the floor? Maybe. Simmons just stared at the figures advancing towards him.

Really, Simmons should know to be careful for what he wished for. It was humiliating, being grabbed at. Hands clawing away the maroon outer layer, hands holding the black under armour to steady him. Exposed, so utterly exposed. It was so fucking embarrassing. They’d started to prod at him now, jeering as he winced. One of them must have hit a bruise, it exploded in pain. Boiling hot pain. Fuck, please just leave.

The door opened again, and the hands retracted and the figures retreated. A man walked in, not in full armour like the other two, but in a formal get up. His hair was greying, he looked scarred, and he had the type of bags under his eyes that Simmons knew too well. Standing before Simmons, his nose wrinkled.

“I want a full name, age, and affiliation,” he said with a gravelly voice, “now.”

Simmons looked towards the outlines of the people standing guard by the door before answering, “Richard Joseph Simmons, 33, Red team. Sir.”

The man raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

“Hartley, Fritz, I’d prefer it if you’d leave us be.”

As the guards left the room, Simmons’ heart began to run a marathon. He wanted to back away into a wall, but he was frozen. Aside from the shaking, apparently. Incapacitated by the utter disgust on this man’s face, lip wobbling at the grin that now spread on his cut up lips.

“You know, Richard... can I call you Richard?” Simmons didn’t answer him, just held his tongue. It wasn’t okay for anyone to call him Richard, he’d not been called Richard since he lived with his father. He didn’t wait for an answer, “I think we can get along perfectly fine if we tell each other what we want to hear. Alright, Richard?”

“Yes, sir.” Simmons squirmed in his suit. The interrogator walked towards Simmons, and grabbed his wrist. He pulled off the black glove and cast it aside before rolling up the material that really shouldn’t be that easy to roll up.

“Excellent, Richard,” the man said, “then tell me...”

Simmons’ eye widened. A knife was in the man’s hands, holding it against Simmons’ bare skin. The blade was by a surgery scar, from a junkyard trip when he was in university. He’d convinced the guys it was from a fight pre-Blood Gulch. Nobody believed him, Simmons didn’t even know why he’d tried to attempt that level of grandeur.

“... why did you say you were older than your official records?”

At the other side of the door, Hartley and Fritz turned to look at each other as the tail end off a pleading sob dissipated into the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not uploading on Monday! I had issues with this chapter and rewrote it about six times, so if it’s a bit sloppy compared to the first two then I fully take the blame. There’s a change in perspective next chapter, and as I missed the update day, I’ll try to get the fifth one up next week too! :D


	4. Mission Objective: The Bunks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve wasted time, I’ve wasted breath, I think I’ve thought myself to death.”  
> -Kongos, Come With Me Now

“But no! He thinks he’s all this because he’s some special ops guy! He’s paranoid!”

“Mhm.”

“And also! He treats us all like we’re idiots! I mean, we are, but you’d think we don’t even know how to read!”

“Uh huh.”

“Always ‘Sarge do this’, ‘Caboose don’t do that’. Like come on dude, give it a rest, we’re barely alive!”

“Yeah.”

“We’re shipwrecked, moron, let us regurgitate!”

“It’s ‘recuperate’.”

“I... how’d you know that?”

Grif shrugged. There were a million different responses to Tucker’s question, but he couldn’t be bothered to pick one out. It was simply an easy word to know, he thought. Tucker seemed okay with this response and continued his rave about Wash, which Grif was more than happy to listen to. If Tucker was focused on hating Wash, then Grif could be too. Even if in silence.

Grif knew that, logically, it was nobody’s fault. Especially not Wash’s, but he was the one to break it to him. So he pinned blame. He channelled every bit of anger and every bit of sadness into absolutely despising him. If he had a person to blame, processing became easier than if it was just something with no real explanation. Grif hated Wash, Tucker hated Wash. Wash was what they talked about most nowadays.

It had been two - three? - days since the crash. Sarge didn’t count the first day, but Grif suspects that’s because he was unconscious for most of it. Nobody really knew what had happened, they were just messing about like usual when the ship’s alarms blared. Scrambling to get into their armour, they retreated to the back of the ship away from escape pods. Grif hated this idea, mainly as he wanted to, you know, fucking live. But Carolina was adamant to run as far away from them as possible. Towards the barracks, where they’d slept for about two months. Maintenance men and other passengers fled past them, screaming and yelling, as they just retreated. Locking themselves in tight spaces, they waited for the inevitable.

Grif could’ve sworn Simmons was with them, but his eyes failed him in his search. He assumed he’d be okay, because he was Simmons. Somewhere, somehow, he’d find a way. Grif and Simmons always found each other, survived everything the universe threw at them, laughed about it later. In the past chunk of his life, Grif rarely went a day without talking to him.

“Come on,” Tucker said as he finally noticed Grif had stopped replying, “we’re nearly at the bunks.”

If Wash did anything right recently, it was make sure Tucker was never far from Grif. Out of the remaining cast of misfits, he much preferred the Blue to anyone else. Perhaps it’s so that Grif actually did something, he had spent most of the first handful of day moping with the refusal to do anything actually worthwhile on the tip of his tongue at all times.

“It’s not like there’ll be any food,” Grif said, “what’s the point?”

“We need things other than food, fatass.”

Grif stopped still, biting the inside of his cheek. His grip tightened on his gun, his toes curled in his boots. Tucker realised what he’d said about five seconds after Grif froze. Not that he was particularly upset by the insult, it was the familiarity. Daily, almost. A nickname rather than cruelty. Softness, almost. Fondness? Yes, that was the word. Fond. Even if they were barely friends, even if he hated Grif. He was fond of him.

They were fond of each other, Grif maybe too much. Back at Blood Gulch, when the burning hot sun relented ever so slightly, the haze was auburn; they’d clamber atop the roof at what should’ve been the dead of night just to talk. At first, Grif would pull out an old handheld game and Simmons would watch and commentate, offering assistance where Grif didn’t need it. Soon, it developed into their usual chit chat, albeit with a strange air. The atmosphere back then did strange things to the way they saw each other, or at least how Grif saw Simmons.

Murky sun on metal limbs, dim red light radiating from that stupidly annoying fake eye. For some very Sarge reason, the only things he had laying around for Simmons’ surgery were all red. Or at least as red as the metal could get, it was still more silver. At least Simmons was alive after it all, and Grif was alive too because of it. They were alive.

Alive. Fuck.

“Sorry, dude.”

“Don’t be.”

The two of them stepped over fried wires, following the path they had to learn on the journey. The barracks were uncomfortable to say the least, but at least Simmons and Grif had been paired up. It was bearable, since they slept better knowing the other was just in reach. Listen to him. Simmons and Grif. Grif and Simmons. Contrary to popular belief, Grif wasn’t emotionally dependent on Simmons. They weren’t bonded by blood. 

Tucker stopped, outside door 13c. Grif walked into him before properly realising what that meant. Tucker and Caboose’s bunk, where the walls weren’t soundproof. Grif heard Caboose crying in his sleep too many times to be comfortable. Would it be odd for Grif to rummage around there? Surely not. He’d rather that than 14c.

Neither of them had helmets on. A conscious decision, there was little need for them. Another excuse not to listen to Wash, who would end up trying to call them for updates every six seconds. Tucker and Grif met eyes, which was a very strange experience. Normally, it was a fellow Red he shared a look with. Yet, the only Red here was Sarge, and he was not going to have some profound bonding moment with him.

Tucker himself looked awful, tired. Everybody found it hard to sleep here, it seemed. Still, he smiled his winning smile, and walked further down the way to 14c. All while maintaining eye contact.

“Thanks,” Grif said, cracking his neck in a way that would disgust Simmons. Tucker just mimicked the action, both of them disappointed in the lack of a pop.

“Good luck, soldier,” Tucker said in his best imitation of Wash, which just meant he dropped his voice and spoke dramatically.

“I won’t need it,” Grif said in his best imitation of Carolina, which just meant he raised his voice and pouted his lips.

With the slightest hint of irony, they walked into their respective bunk in total sync.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grif do be like: *thinks abt Simmons* *thinks abt Simmons* *thinks abt Si
> 
> I’m so so sorry for the delay, I had even more trouble with this one than the last! But I’m decently happy with how it’s turned out, and I'm really excited for chapter 5. ;P
> 
> Also, wanna follow me on tumblr? I’m @xziris there too!


	5. Crash Site Bravo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Miss the space between your eyelids, where I’d stare through awkward sentences and avoid through awkward silences.”  
> -Keaton Henson, Small Hands

“Do you have it working yet?”

“No.”

“How about now?”

“No.”

“Now?”

“If you’re just going to ask me that over and over, I implore you to do something else.”

Grif rolled his eyes but bit his tongue. He didn’t want to be up here, watching Wash work on fixing something beyond repair. The very sight of him made him kind of sick to the stomach, unnecessary distaste burning though his systems. Every single time he asked Grif to pass him a tool or a bit of scrap metal, Grif just wanted to throw it off the comm tower. Shift his mild annoyances to progress hinderances. Irritate him to the point that he hated Grif too, just to have something new to complain about with Tucker.

Wash didn’t care. All he wanted to do was get the hell out of here, due in large part to him having his priorities straight. Theoretically, Grif was on this team. Every moment in this canyon burnt a hole into him, an ant under a magnifying glass. Constant reminders of something just beyond his fingertips, something long gone. In reality, the more work Grif could intentionally avoid, the better. The more he could get back at Wash, the faster the world spun, the easier he slept.

With a heavy sigh, Wash hit the part of the radio he was working on. Grif wanted to comment about how using the screwdriver they’d found would’ve been easier, but didn’t want Sarge to hear Wash snap at him. See, Sarge had employed Grif to keep an eye on Wash as apparently the dirty Blue was catching on to him when he did it. It wasn’t riveting, but standing there with his hands in his pockets while Wash cursed at himself was better than helping Sarge renovate Red Section.

Both Tucker and Sarge wanted seperate bases in the canyon, but Wash convinced them it would be more resourceful to stick together. Don’t go wasting precious time or resources in their fake Red versus Blue battles when they could be scavenging for extra supplies, or fixing the radio tower. He underestimated Sarge’s dedication. That’s how Grif and Sarge ended up in a size of a small room cut off from the rest of the base with measly stacks of sandbags for walls. Caboose kept stealing them for his own projects (Grif couldn’t be bothered to ask him, nor to stop him) but Sarge became convinced it was Wash.

In all honesty, Grif did not understand why Sarge would want to stay in such close quarters with him. Well, he did, but that wasn’t something he wanted to think about now. Familiarity, comfort. Come on, don’t do this now.

Grif looked down to the floor of the canyon where Carolina was skulking about, doing something complicated probably. He blinked and she was gone again, but he’d stopped being surprised by that since he met Caboose.

“Grif? Are you listening?” Wash was clicking his fingers. Grif looked back up to the platform the two of them were stood on.

“Dude, it’s always safe to assume I’m not. That’s what Si- everyone else does.“

Wash hit him with a look that was too sympathetic for his liking, so opted to ignore it.

“Well, to summarise it, I think you should talk to Sarge.”

Grif rolled his eyes and slipped his hands out of his pockets to play with a loose thread on his jacket. The UNSC were nice enough to supply colour coded vests, jackets, and camo print trousers alongside the armour. Even if the camouflage pattern was entirely useless in bright orange, it made for decent casual wear. Grif preferred it tenfold to the suit, even if it did have the logo branded over his heart to remind him that he was nothing but canon fodder. It was also a little itchy, but Grif had proven he could sleep in anything time and time again, so he didn’t mind.

“Sarge? Why? About what?”

“If you were listening,” Wash said with a pointed glare, “I just think it’ll do you both good.”

“What about, though?”

“Well, you know. Current events.”

“Oh. Simmons?”

Wash wasn’t looking at him, so Grif stared into the side of his head. Thankful he was leaning against the railing, Grif let out a breath that had built in his chest without him realising. Simmons never fully trusted Wash, but Simmons had issues. Grif just didn’t like anybody on the team, but he did at the same time. They used to poke fun at him behind his back like they were teenagers, like they poked fun at everyone on the team. In a way, it was how they got used to him.

Despite tolerating him, Wash always was a crick in the neck. Grif once woke Simmons up at three in the morning to discuss something he’d overheard him say to Caboose, which he’d remembered during his second late night snack run. Simmons’ hair was a mess, he could barely keep his eyes open, one was shut off, and he fell asleep again after ten minutes. 

Having someone to complain to was a godsend, both of them always had something to complain about, even if it was inconvenient for the other. Sarge, Blues, the food, Donut, each other, Sarge, the state of the base, strange smells, Lopez, the Warthog music, Sarge.

Maybe he should talk to Sarge. Grif finally felt Wash look at him again, so tried to form words in his head before he said them aloud. What good would it do either of them? They were Reds, repression was par for the course. If Sarge wanted to talk about Simmons, then he would. If Grif wanted to talk about Simmons, then he certainly wouldn’t talk to Sarge.

“Nah.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then.”

Wash loosened his shoulders and turned away to work on the radio. Grif just looked back to the floor of the canyon, watching Sarge pulling apart small covers for their sandbags. They hadn’t shared more than two words at a time since they’d arrived. Sarge hauled the sandbags into the base, and Grif watched as Caboose jumped off of his perch on a nearby rock and follow him in.

They didn’t need to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sorry I haven’t uploaded in forever, the world’s changing. Check out what you can can do to support the BLM movement: https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/
> 
> 2\. This was not what chapter five initially was going to be! I realised I wanted to take my time with the original idea, and have more interaction with the remainder of the team before then!
> 
> 3\. Chapter 6 will be soon, I promise. 
> 
> 4\. I wrote most of this at 2/3am and I’m uploading it at half past 4.
> 
> 5\. It turned out decent enough for what it is, especially after struggling with motivation and time (college amirite!)


	6. Restlessness At Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “For the friends I've made, for the sleepless nights. For the warning signs I've completely ignored.”  
> -The Front Bottoms, Twin Sized Mattress

“The end! The moral of the story is to never trust anybody who knows their turkey knife from their steak knife!”

“Is there any difference?”

“If you’re trustworthy, there’s none.”

“I don’t know why it’s untrustworthy, though. All you told me about was losing a game of poker.”

“And my eye! I lost my eye!”

“Would you trust me if I told you I didn’t know the difference?”

Sarge fell quiet and took a dramatic breath in. Grif just rolled over on his mat, a rain sheet serving as a very uncomfortable blanket. If he’d done what he was told to do, he’d have something at least a bit softer. He was supposed to help Tucker shift through the clothes they’d found the other day but, between watching Wash and doing nothing, he was pretty busy. Instead, Tucker did it alone and refused to give anything to Grif no matter how pathetic Grif made his pout.

Eventually, with an incomprehensible grumble that Grif interpreted as ‘no’, Sarge sat on his mat. He’d finally retreated from his lookout position, which was actually just leaning slightly with one foot on the sandbags. Grif hadn’t the energy to talk him out of it. It was late, he still couldn’t get much sleep, and honestly the muffled chatter of the Blues were far more entertaining than whatever Sarge was convinced was going to happen.

It became a great excuse to get Sarge off of his back. He’d pretend he was eavesdropping on some master plot, Sarge would wipe a fake tear and proclaim him a proper soldier after all, then he’d believe the shit Grif made up when he asked what was going on. Admittedly, it did take a week for Grif to catch on that if he mentioned Carolina or Wash, Sarge would hunt them down in the morning and start up a scene. It saved him an hour or two of being assigned orders he probably wouldn’t do, so it was well worth it.

“Grif, tomorrow, you need to steal the markers Washington found,” Sarge said with unwavering certainty as he struggled with his plastic sheets.

“Why? They’re blue.”

“I saw a red one! We need a proper way to mark this is Red Base!”

“Are the sandbags just not cutting it?” Grif said dryly, watching as Sarge’s eye narrowed in his direction. This situation with Grif was simply the lesser of two evils, and he was hellbent on reminding his commanding officer of that fact.

Sarge huffed, having gotten himself laying flat on his back, the sheet discarded. They were his idea in the first place, to have one over the others. Content to sleep in their jackets, it wasn’t actually all that cold here, Sarge gave them the extra mat he’d been given in exchange for their rain sheets. Wash then had to explain that they were sharing this, they didn’t need to trade, and that they didn’t actually need any extra protection from the elements up there. If he was anything, Sarge was stubborn, so he won out once again.

Grif rolled on his side to face away from Sarge, mainly to end the conversation, and began to absentmindedly trace a burn scar on his arm. He didn’t know how he got it, it wasn’t his. Honestly, he never wanted to ask what had happened. Partly because Simmons clammed up when he saw Grif looking at it, partly because it was pretty insignificant compared to the mirage of other scruffs and marks he already had.

Imperfections. Grif curled up into himself slightly, begging his mind to drop it and go to sleep. Of course, that didn’t work. Images of bandaging bloody knuckles worked his way into his mind. Grif squeezed his eyes shut as if it would help. Apologies followed by sleepy laughter, their eyes meeting each other in the small bathroom. No room for them to sit properly. Just looking at each other with sadness welling behind their features.

Grif just opened his eyes again, shaking the thoughts from his head. It was late, but maybe Tucker was still awake. He’d be better company than Sarge. Grif rolled over to see him sat up again, looking between the sandbags and Grif.

“I’m gonna get some water,” Grif said, pushing himself up. Sarge grunted in response, letting him go.

Leaving Red Section, Grif fumbled his way down to the bottom half of the base. He manoeuvred himself right past the container of water. Still, he’d made sure to check if Caboose’s toothbrushes were still there. Grif should probably brush his teeth one day soon. With a smile, a small voice in the back of his head reminded him that even if he did it, he wouldn’t do it right. Because actually, Grif, you shouldn’t wet your toothbrush before using it. It makes the bristles weak.

He backtracked, and grabbed two of the small cups they’d salvaged. He filled them up, because even if nobody was awake, he’d at least have plenty to drink. Carefully, Grif made his way to where the Blues slept, before realising that this idea was stupid. He stopped in his tracks, spilling a little bit of the water as he did.

Still, he pushed forward, finding the array of Blues scattered around. Wash was on his stomach, mumbling in his sleep. Grif caught something about Carolina, and vaguely wondered where she was. Caboose was flat on his back, his limbs spread out. He looked like a starfish, his chest rising and falling too quickly to be asleep if you were anyone else but Caboose. Tucker was definetly out, on his side, with his feet twitching.

Grif looked at the two cups of water, then at the men he watched sleeping. It was weird, so he left and turned to leave the base. Something stopped him, the knot in his chest he’d failed to lose tugging him back. Okay, alright. Grif swivelled on his heel and made his way back up to Red Section.

He purposefully dragged his feet a little, because sitting up and drinking with Sarge - even if it’s only water - was far from the best option tonight. At least it wasn’t the worst, he decided as he walked through the gap in the sandbags once more.

Sarge looked oddly relieved to see him again, placing down the shotgun he must have grabbed to fend off any intruders. Grif just offered him a very forced smile before going over to hand him the drink. After careful inspection, Sarge deemed it okay, and took a large gulp. Grif sat on his own mat, facing his sergeant.

“I really thought for a minute you weren’t coming back!”

“I considered it.”

“Desertion! That’s punishable by-“

“Cut it off, they’re sleeping downstairs.”

“That makes some of us.”

Grif nodded, kind of taken aback by the sudden change of tone. Sarge’s face fell solemn all to quick, and Grif averted his eyes. Entertaining himself by grasping at the cup of water he didn’t actually want to get, he swirled the liquid around a bit before taking a sip. Sarge cleared his throat. Grif looked up again, not wanting to meet his remaining eye. Sarge hesitatingly raised the cup in the air. Grif found himself mimicking him.

“To our rescue,” Sarge grumbled, downing the rest of his drink and slamming the cup aside.

“To our rescue,” Grif parroted, drinking a small bit and setting his cup down. He had the sneaking suspicion that wasn’t all that Sarge wanted to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk what this chapter is, but it kinda be sweet tho! I like I think even if it’s very stagnant. Just some Reds trying their best. ;P


	7. Fear Of The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for drowning, vomit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I cry in the afterlife, I cry hard because I have died, and you’re alive.”  
> -Mother Mother, Arms Tonite

He didn’t know where he was. From the room, to the facility, to the planet. Simmons had no idea where he was. Maybe it was due to the constant loss of blood that made his mind foggy, or perhaps he could pin it to a lack of sleep. Explanations, evidence, all worth little when compared to the feeling of nothingness that had clasped to his being recently. It had settled in his stomach, but worked its way out to most of his organs. He’d forgotten which ones were his own, which were metal contraptions. Apparently, to the growing hollowness in his body, it made no difference. Not knowing whether this was just his body’s natural response to this situation, he’d just accepted it as a new constant. Simmons could not see an out.

After what Simmons could only assume was a week or so after the crash, he’d finally gotten that routine. Even if it was unsteady, unreliable, and could barely be classed as routinely. He’d be stuck in his small room, bent awkwardly with his remaining gangly limbs, waiting for the guards to change shift. Then, Fritz and Hartley would heave him up, shove him around a little, and escort him to the same room. There, he’d wait for the scarred man whose name he still didn’t know, bite his tongue as he’d dismiss his escorts, and watch as he turned to Simmons with an unfair grin. His entire lower right arm was sliced to pieces, which hurt more to look at than experience.

Every slit in his arm was every incorrect answer he gave. Simmons genuinely knew none of the answers to the man’s questions, which made him shudder late at night in his closet as he wished that he did. How had he missed the Freelancer’s full names? Or Sarge’s, for that matter? Why did they care? Simmons knew none of the Blue’s drama, which seemed to take up a lot of interrogation time. While he thought he was a bit more acquainted with Project Freelancer, the questions about them were unanswerable. Either before his time, too obscure, or unbearably painful.

They hadn’t even any curtesy to bandage him up. He’d lost the privilege to cover the wounds too, as his under armour was cut off at the elbow after the second questioning. Time and time again, he wanted to cradle the chopped mess of a limb. He wanted hide it, or from it, escape what he’d guessed was just the beginning. Simmons once thought they’d be better off amputating it, but considering his luck, he swore off thinking about it again.

His shadows hadn’t left his side, the men who had walked him to this new space still guarding him. Simmons took it as a bad sign, but what didn’t he take as a bad sign. His eyes darted around, saw the unmistakable scratch on the floor from hurriedly moved furniture, and realised that whatever was coming for him needed a whole room. It was smaller than the usual place, but bigger than his confinements, and the part of his brain that yearned for order was confused as to why they just hadn’t stuck with what he knew.

Selfishly, Simmons wanted Grif to be by his side again. Not being tortured, obviously, but just here and alive. Those hours he willed away locked up at night, he’d settled on Grif. Even if he wasn’t here, even if it was an impossibility. Wasting away to the thought of happier times was ultimately better than wasting away to the thought of nothing. As much as he had accepted their deaths, and had come to terms with the inevitability of his own, he could never escape them. Could never escape him. He could barely remember their last moments now, they became twisted and tangled whenever he lay awake at night.

As he inhaled to prepare himself, Simmons felt a strong grasp on his middle. For a second, he forgot where he was, and started to fight back. He kicked his legs, tried to pull out. Before he could even register the fact that he was struggling, he became winded. Forcefully thrown to the floor, his human eye pricked with tears. The fake one started blinking in and out, obscuring his vision every few seconds. He was so useless, unable to fend off the weight that pinned his legs to the floor, not even bothering to restrain his messed up arm.

The door to the room opened again, and Simmons tried to position his head to see who it was. Pointless, really, as there was only one answer. Tailed by two soldiers in the same black armour as the men holding him down, stood the scarred man.

“Well, Richard, look where you’ve got yourself. It’s shocking how uncooperative you are.”

Simmons knew better to retort, but couldn’t if he tried. His throat itched with dehydration, his voice shrivelled and decayed.

“This could have all been avoided if you weren’t so stubborn.”

Simmons nodded, wincing as footsteps moved around him without a clear vision. Something in his abdomen squeezed too tight.

“So tell me, Richard, what do you know about the Alpha A.I?”

He knew that one. Simmons opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He tried to signal to the man to give him a moment, he’ll let him know, but Simmons could feel the impatience oozing out of him.

“I don’t know who you think you’re protecting by doing this.”

To the best of Simmons’ knowledge, he wasn’t protecting anybody. He took the best of his knowledge with a grain of salt, because it’s him, but it was the best lead he had. Nobody. There was nobody left to protect, right? Valhalla, maybe. No, definetly. If they didn’t know that those on Valhalla were there, then he had a chance to keep them safe. As Simmons wracked his sleepless brain back to the last day at Red Base, he could clearly picture hearing Carolina say that staying there was against direct orders. They’d been officially assigned back to Blood Gulch, so their records would say they were on the ship! Right? What evidence did he have? Evidence, explanations. Over and over he went.

After what felt like hours, the man acknowledged that Simmons wouldn’t answer. The aura of disappointment Simmons hadn’t experienced in a long while filled the room, everything after that happened in a blur. The two soldiers behind his interrogator advanced towards Simmons. Harmless enough, until he noticed what they held. Piecing two and two together a tad too late, all he could do was try to resist. Flailing his damaged arm to fend them off, hurting himself more than anything, kicking his now asleep legs to push the hands away. Fuck, please, get them off!

A white cloth was pressed over his mouth, and the hoarseness in his throat transformed into a scream. Muffled, panicked, and painful. Still fighting with his sudden burst of desperation, Simmons’ unrestrained hand grabbed the wrist of the soldier by his head. Shooting pain spread over his forearm, yet he fought through it, failing to pull the hand away. He was back in Blood Gulch. The ship had crashed on Donut, and they were yelling at him to induce stress related strength. This must have been what Sarge wanted from Donut. Donut was physically strong without the added emotional charge, so it wouldn’t have been as pathetic as this. Donut, Sarge. Sarge. Simmons felt himself screaming again.

Now his vision was white with the pain from his arm. The solider had a knee on it, pressing down hard. The tears in his eye were flooding down his face now, because as much as his vision was still blinking, his fake eye could see the other soldier above him. Simmons could do nothing now. He would never see an out.

Water was poured into his filtered air pipes, but nothing could stop him from choking on it. Unable to breathe, squirming but not fighting, his mind spiralling as it so often did. The cloth was pulled aside, and Simmons was relieved of the sensation for what he knew was only a short time. He gulped down as much air as he could before the cycle continued. Each time he resurfaced, he was convinced he would never meet oxygen again.

His lungs burnt. His head became airy, and he couldn’t think straight. The only thought on his mind was his internal dialogue asking if this was how he would die. Despite it not only being directed to his mouth, Simmons felt as though his whole body was being dragged underneath a murky surface. Drowning.

He was seven again, he tried to struggle, but his bounds made it no use. His mother’s voice called for him, just like it did that day. This was how he’d die.

This wasn’t how he’d die. At some point, when they let him breathe, he was allowed to keep taking down air. Simmons whimpered. His body was convulsing, preparing to vomit. Footsteps shuffled around him, murmurs flooded his ears. Nothing was there to throw up but water and acid. Shaking now, Simmons lay flat with bile etching to escape his system while black armoured figures mumbled about him.

With a sort of suddenness, Simmons’ hand was free from restraint, and armoured paws jerked him upright. It was too much, he retched. Though primarily liquid, the thick of his vomit hung from his chin, while the rest splattered on his under armour. At least what remained of it. Black spots cursed his vision from his human eye, his robotic one flickering in and out worse than ever. His left half began to heat up before he even knew he was shivering. Vile taste burnt into his tongue, his muddled thoughts overlapping one another. Sitting up wasn’t doing him any justice.

“The Alpha A.I.”

“They fractured it! Tortured it, used itself against it! Broke it down!” Simmons spluttered out. He had nobody to protect. Yes he did. No he didn’t. Over and over he went.

“What fragments have you had contact with?”

“Omega! Epsilon, I think!”

Whatever he said seemed to be enough, as he was pushed back down flat on his back. All at once, the pressure holding him down left his body, and he waited to be hauled up and locked back in the closet. Keep him there, let the water in his lungs kill him. Either from finally drowning or from short circuiting something. Instead, Simmons lay with his chest heaving, covered in his own sick, as the room emptied.

Simmons heard the unmistakable and familiar sound of a key locking. The rumble of a shift change, the stagnation that followed. He must not have been here long. All this for one question. He shut his eyes, let the hollowness turn to sleep, and let his first dream in forever carry him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I finally got this finished. Sorry for another delay, it was recently exam week at my college and that really drained me. I also went through a creative block as my creative writing club wasn’t all that active, but enough excuses! ;P


	8. Weakness In Confinement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Feeling moody, dark, and heavy, there’s no feeling in my left arm.”  
> -Autoheart, Hungover In The City Of Dust

As the honey glazed light flickered into the hours of what they assumed was night, Simmons heard the clattering behind him. Scowling to himself without having to turn, he automatically shifted across slightly to let room for Grif. Across the canyon, Simmons could hear the disdains of Church, but opted to ignore him. Nothing Blue mattered at this time, even if them simply being awake was a call for caution. If need be, Simmons could tell Sarge in the morning, when both were more awake. Simmons felt the space next to him fill, and looked down at the dying earth below them.

Silence hung between them as their arms just touched, metal on skin. Simmons swung his legs a little over the edge, Grif drummed the surface of the roof with his fingers. Both of them wanted to mention earlier, Simmons could hear the unsaid words already. Yet, what was the point? Simmons was already too focused on it, and fixating on things has never proven him any good. Perhaps Grif thought that talking it out would do some good, to one of them. Neither know which one, it would probably prove more useful to talk to Sarge or Donut about it. Feelings aren’t their strongpoint.

“You know, if it makes you feel better, I didn’t apply for the position,” Grif said, his voice calculated. How many times had he run over these words to make them perfect? Probably none. That’s more of a Simmons flaw than a Grif one.

“It doesn’t, but thanks,” Simmons said with a small huff.

“Cut it out, come on.” Simmons could hear the smile Grif was suppressing behind his words. He stayed staring at the ground. “It’s not my fault. I don’t want the position.”

“I never said I blamed you!”

“You know I don’t buy that for a second.”

“But-“

“You’re an awful liar, Simmons.”

As Simmons was about to respond, to shoot back a snide comment, a loud bang snapped him out of it. If his back wasn’t aching from spending the night (or day, Simmons still couldn’t tell the time) on his back, he would’ve snapped upright to try and investigate. Instead, he just let his body restart, his human eye exploring the metal panelling that covered the ceiling. Against the putrid white walls that didn’t look dry, it was stark and unwelcoming. Cold even more so than the freeze of the room. At this point in time, he couldn’t quite differentiate between the whir of his body coming back online, or the low hum of the light fixture imbedded almost directly above him.

Waiting for his fake eye to turn back on, and for any follow up to the noise, Simmons awkwardly manoeuvred his body to sit up. It was a struggle without his arms, but once he was upright, he wished he wasn’t. His head shot with white hot pain, his eye blacked for a few seconds. With a steadying breath, the pain began to alleviate. Simmons didn’t dare move, even if the wall behind him was close enough for his legs to push him against. Dwarfed by a room that was no bigger than the Red Base bathroom back at Valhalla. Simmons allowed his muscles to relax, and his eye began to dart around. The floor was still stained with vomit. There were no windows. The door was on the wall across from him, but more to the right. Nothing else remained.

So he didn’t drown in his sleep. That was reassuring, but his lungs still burnt alongside his mouth. Simmons wanted to say it was more shock and immediate harm that wracked his body so unjustly, to give himself some semblance of control. Whatever grasps of it he had left, it had to be over his own body. Parts of which wouldn’t cooperate.

His left eye wasn’t turning on. The airy feeling following sleep that still hugged his bones melted, and panic took it’s place. Simmons closed his working eye, searching his mind for a reason. No more serenity held him. He tried to remember what happened before he slept, but the broken pieces of his dream stuck to him. All he could think about was how the air tasted on his lips. Words that he couldn’t quite recall, but a tone that was undeniable. Laced with tangerine laughter, and said without a trace of malice.

“I don’t care what you fucking think, let me in!” A voice outside of his room forced Simmons’ eye back open. It was followed shortly by another bang, and Simmons could place it now as a fist on a wall. The wall he was facing, to be more exact.

He bit his lip, and tried to get his eye back online. It wasn’t the first time it had blown itself out, if he was remembering correctly, but Lopez would always be around to fix it. Simmons didn’t particularly trust him, they did not have the best repertoire, but there was nothing that man - robot - couldn’t get in working shape. Thanks to him, they managed to survive even Blood Gulch. It was sunset, in his dream, but were there ever any sunsets there? Not that he could recall, not now, not where he was. His mind wasn’t on. His eye wasn’t on. What was he on about?

“Unlock this door! Right now, before I contact Command, and get your ass in more trouble than you’re worth!” It was clearly a man speaking, based more on the arrogance than on the sound. Simmons could feel his lungs collapsing in on each other.

Focus. Eye. But he couldn’t get more than one string of thought to cohere in his mind. The hollowness that settled in his stomach had gradually returned, worse now, breaking him apart all over again. Simmons wasn’t too dumb as to let out the gargled scream that had built in his damaged throat, but couldn’t stop the small moans that escaped the barriers of his lips. It didn’t hurt, yet it clutching to every inch of his insides was indescribably painful. Between the nothingness, the broken eye, and what laid outside his new cell; Simmons was surprised his whole body didn’t shut off and start to decompose on the spot. Or perhaps his body had been programmed to live on instead of simply giving up at the face of danger. 

“Step aside, Leroy. Do you want me to bring my partner in? Because I know how much you two get along.” He wasn’t shouting anymore, but there was no other noise to block him out. Leroy, who must’ve been too quiet before, finally spoke loud enough for Simmons to hear her.

“Sorry, Felix, bosses orders.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s on about. Open the door, Leroy, or we’ll have company.”

Apparently, the second threat to bring in Felix’s partner scared the guard enough to stand down. While Simmons flinched at the loud bang of the door, either the noise or the vibrations forced his software to come online, and by proxy his hardware. He could see now, so he soothed the sorry expression that was tattooed upon his face, and looked up to see who he presumed would be Felix. It was surprising to see some different armour, but it just upset his stomach more. Black, orange, pointy. The visor was only big enough to cover his eyes, everything was at odd angles. Something about his build, as much of it as Simmons could make out, explained why he needed someone else to threaten others with.

He advanced towards Simmons, and everything he had tried so hard to distract himself with had finally left his immediate thought. His dream, his pitiful state... all that mattered now was Felix. His gait was uncomfortable, Simmons pinned it down to a limp. The walls seemed to close in on them as he advanced, his footfall echoing more and more with each step. As many times in he said he was going to die in the past goodness knows how long, none had him more convinced than now. The man had his hand on his gun, even if it was holstered. A bullet would meet his brain today.

Felix stopped, just close enough for Simmons’ eye to widen. When his hands moved, it wasn’t to pull the pistol out of its holster. He reached up to his head, and pulled his helmet off. All Simmons could make out before his gaze fell back to the gun, was an ugly scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to his neck. It was too straight, too perfect to be anything other than a brand of punishment. That could happen to him, Simmons gulped, that could easily be his fate. Just in his field of vision, Simmons saw that Felix moved his hand again. Cautiously looking at it, it was yet another surprise to see it extended in his direction.

“I’m Felix, but you might have heard that,” Felix said, to which Simmons just nodded weakly. He still wasn’t looking him in the face. “Sorry about that, I promise I’m nice most of the time.”

Simmons felt twelve, but mainly scared. Still fixated on the outstretched hand, on the supposed companionship that Felix was proposing. If he didn’t take the offer, he assumed there would be brute force to drag him off to wherever Felix intended on taking him. He wasn’t supposed to be here, though, so this could just be a way to avoid the scene that manhandling Simmons would become. There was no strategy to playing nice when it came to torture, but then again, he wasn’t much of an expert on the subject. Explanations, evidence. Over and over he went.

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re smart, you don’t trust me. I just want to have a talk with you,” Felix said despite the continuous apprehension on Simmons’ face, “it’s not an interrogation. You can ask me as many questions as I might ask you.”

He wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t have much choice. His hand fell into Felix’s. Simmons’ arm squealed in pain as Felix pulled him up, but the scream in his throat was gone. It had worked its way out of his pipes, if he was to actually ask Felix anything, he’d need to make a more comprehensible sound than whatever pained squeak he could muster. Still on the fence about whether or not Felix was telling any semblance of the truth, Simmons supposed it didn’t quite matter. He was going to end up in worse pain at some point, a lie from someone he didn’t know wasn’t enough to emotionally damage him.

He’d lie right back, if he could, even if it was pointless. Simmons couldn’t even tell when he was being lied to, which was more dangerous now than ever before. His gut instinct was to trust him. Because he offered a hand, because he was so desperate to get Simmons out of his confinements, because he needed someone. He didn’t trust anybody, not even before this whole thing, not even his gut. The thing wasn’t real anyway if he was remembering correctly, he hadn’t been too focused on his inner machinations lately. Torn between two outcomes, either a lie or an ally, he decided to just be as weary as possible. Perhaps Felix would turn out to be nothing but a deceiver after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so not my best work, but what I could do w the plan I gave myself. This is my first time writing the mercs! They’ve been through a lot since the prequel episodes, so I assume they got a bit more scarred and worn. Chapter 9 will be a fun one to write, so I hope you guys enjoy reading it just as much! \o/


	9. Normal, Friendly Chit Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Water damaged memories are floating down my street,”  
> -Birds in the Airport, Honey Moon

Simmons’ mouth had forgotten how to eat. The saltine cracker that he was chewing felt too foreign, hyperaware of where his tongue was. It wasn’t enough to satiate any form of hunger, but the hollowness had began to recede to only his stomach. His mouth would be in dire need of water soon, yet he couldn’t care less. To eat is to live, he only wanted to survive. Felix had graciously offered them to him, reassuring that he hadn’t dipped them in some poisonous substance. Sure, Simmons didn’t like the need for clarification, but maybe that was just his sense of humour. It wasn’t a funny joke if that’s all it was, not that Simmons had come to expect entertainment.

He was being watched with intense curiosity. Felix’s eyes burnt Simmons’ skin. The lack of moisture in Simmons’ mouth began to irritate him, wishing he was under the authority to ask for water. Instead, he worked the remainder of his saliva glands. Swallowing nothing, still parched. There was a flicker on Felix’s lips, akin to a smile. Now that he was somewhat fed, as well as out of the room he’d slept in, he could take a gander at Felix’s face. While the most striking feature on his face, Felix had many more scars to accompany the one that ran from his mouth. It appeared to Simmons that something had once attempted to take out Felix’s right eye, the socket was surrounded by uncomfortable etches.

Glared at still, Simmons tried to lock on with the intense eye contact. Now, they were in a standstill. No words had been uttered in the past few minutes. Who was he to speak first? Right here, right now, still in a low sense of shock, Simmons was perfectly fine with staying silent. Here, in this room, he was happy to not speak to Felix. The room itself was somewhat of a luxury. He was sitting on a chair, at a desk. Behind Felix was a large screen imbedded into the wall with it’s control panel concealed elsewhere. Halfheartedly, he wondered how it worked.

Simmons wanted to fiddle with his thumbs, but settled on rubbing the sore spot on his ear again. It wasn’t much pressure on his arm, though the pain was much more distracting than the patch of what he once assumed to be eczema. Felix spat out a cough, and slapped his feet on the table. The black boots were scratched. Other than that, they looked practically spotless. No dirt, no wet grass sticking to the soles, no such thing as dust even caressed the parts where Simmons knew it was hard to clean.

It made him feel even more naked, sat there in his tattered getup. He probably smelled. He wanted to get up and examine his hair in the screen. It was probably wild, up in odd directions. Or, more likely, sticking to his skull with layers of grease. There was the likelihood that he’d gotten vomit in it. Simmons shuddered at the very idea, moving on from his ear to run his fingers through the knots in his hair. Nothing but resistance met his palm, which hurt extraordinarily more than when he was just picking at drying, dead skin.

“So,” Felix said with a bemused smile, “I’m sure you’re wondering where you are.”

“Are you allowed to tell me that?” Simmons was surprised his voice even worked.

“I wasn’t authorised to talk to you in the first place.” Felix leaned back in his chair. He was like a bored high schooler, getting his kicks by ignoring the teacher’s stories about the student who cracked his head open. Disobeying the rules he was given, and going out of his way to speak to Simmons.

“Okay. Where are we?”

“You,” Felix said pointedly, “are in an old office space. A while back, a lot of this planet’s workspaces needed to be underground, and my employers bought this land for their own personal deeds.”

“Like beating the shit out of me?” Simmons should not have said that. He should not have vocalised his thoughts. All Felix did was spit out a laugh and put an arm behind his head.

In the moment, Simmons thought he looked like someone he once knew. A brief flash of armour, squarer and a different colour, the hoarseness in Simmons’ voice from telling him to get his feet off the dashboard. He couldn’t quite place the person, nor the time, but the place resonated as Valhalla. His heart yearned for the pieces of the puzzle to fall into place, his face unable to come to the forefront of his mind. Small features, the sharp jawline. Nothing solidifying him as the person Simmons was thinking of. A name in the back of his head, maybe, but it was all concepts.

Felix went off on a spiel, talking about how this place was unusually damp before Simmons lost any interest in listening. All he did was nod his head along as he tried to make up his mind. While he was distracted, Simmons needed to know whether or not he could be trusted. He needed to weigh up every pro and con he’d learnt in the past half an hour, every pro and con of trusting him, and reach a conclusion. It was as if he was writing an essay about his own autobiography. Autobiography as he trusted nobody, nor would he ever speak about this experience if he were to survive.

While he’d come to terms with the inevitability of his own death, he hadn’t quite figured out a play if he were to get out alive. No way would he tell anyone, especially since those he had left were Reds (and Doc, but he’s an honorary Red based on his ability to not burn flapjack alone), and what did Reds do best? He’d shove this memory as far as humanly possible into the backs of his mind and never utter a single, lonely, unfortunate, disgusting word about it. He would shut the idea down, forget this place even existed, and watch those space rom coms that were always playing at Base. But for now, all Simmons could do, was work his head around his next move.

Pros and cons.

Pro: Felix was currently complaining about his teammates. He wasn’t very intimidating, or he was less so than when Simmons first saw him, all his concerns operated around things such as dampness in the storage room and the fact that Fritz stole his favourite mug for his shitty coffee. Con: Simmons knew it was easier to act innocent than intimidating. All of this could be an act so they could shake hands, meet eyes, and twist every thing Felix heard against him. It was the twitch of his mouth when struggle fought across Simmons’ face, and the harsh not-joke about poisoning the crackers. He wished he hadn’t eaten them now, his tongue was drying out.

“What about you? Your team?” Felix’s eyes had a small light of curiosity shine in them that made Simmons feel more airy than the hollowness, more than he’d ever felt. Desperately searching for it again, Simmons resigned after a few seconds. Whatever it was began to disperse, though he still felt it in his bone marrow.

“My team? Uh, they’re-“ Simmons stopped as it hit him all at once. From the posture, to the attitude, to the light in his eye that determined nothing but trouble. Tucker. He was just like Tucker. Simmons choked on nothing but air as he tried to respond to Felix. He could feel his face stretch into desperation, the hysteria that had subsided after finally sleeping had seeped from his pores. Trying to rag his hand out of his hair, his chest started to tighten again.

Neither of them were close. Barely friends, if he had to choose between Tucker and Caboose; Simmons would choose Caboose. Maybe it was something about the Blues that was hardwired into him, or maybe it was because he simply didn’t get along with people. Tucker and Simmons didn’t do more than small talk. Tucker and Grif would talk during the drills neither of them wanted to do. They would laugh in the rare hours that Simmons spent with Donut. Thinking about Tucker made him think about Grif, which made him think about his dream, which made him remember being waterboarded, which made him think about the crash, which made him think about his last words and how he still didn’t know his last words, which made him think about Grif even more, which-

“Richard?” Felix said, Simmons could feel his eye going wild. Thankfully, he was not crying, but he was certainly on the verge. Felix looked almost bored, perhaps not wanting to look overly sympathetic of whatever display was before him. Over and over. It was as though the second Simmons became slightly more coherent, something would claw at his ankles to pull him back into panic. He mouthed the words before he knew he was thinking them. Explanations...

“Y-yeah?”

“You alright there?”

“I... um. I just was-“

Pro: Felix didn’t pry. If this was a sly coverup of an interrogation, Felix was doing an awful job. He just nodded his head in what must be an understanding manner even if he still looked as though he would rather be anywhere else.

Con: he looked as though he would rather be anywhere else.

Pro: Simmons didn’t need nor want Felix to care for him.

“My team, right?”

Con: even that reminded him of Tucker. 

Pro: there was nothing negative with being compared to someone on Simmons’ team. 

Tucker would ask for dirt on the Reds relatively frequently, though it was always Grif he’d ask. Never Simmons, but Simmons would have to chime in to correct Grif’s inaccuracies. Because they were Grif and Simmons, and if you wanted Grif, you’d also get Simmons. They were Grif and Simmons, who spent an awkwardly long amount of time together. Who sat on the roof of their base and would talk as though the world was going to end, secrets between them begging the sky to not shatter above them.

That was the tipping point. He took a leaf out of Felix’s book and began to ramble endlessly about his own team.

Whatever had built within Simmons deflated all at once as he started to talk about Grif. How he wanted to tell him they were friends, how they should’ve accepted that fact, how he’s dead now and there’s nothing he can do. His mouth was running even drier, but Felix’s face contorted into unreadable glee. Perhaps it should worry him, Simmons thought as he launched off about the cybernetic surgery he underwent. Yet his hand was twitching with the excitement of just speaking, about things that he doubt could be held against him. Before long, he was jittery. Stumbling over his own words as he retold the time he joined Blue team. He should’ve stopped. He knew he should’ve stopped. He didn’t want to. Felix was listening, intently, relieving him of the tensions in his back. Unknotting tied up muscles, massaging twisted ligaments. He looked invested in what Simmons had to say, which he classed as a first.

“So, backtracking a bit to-“

Felix was interrupted by a loud shout of his name, and the door breaking open. Simmons could’ve sworn he saw it splinter, but what was he to do with that information? He turned away to look at Felix, who again looked like a high schooler who had just been caught. Shit eating grin, eyebrows raised mockingly. A genuine smile crossed Simmons’ lips, and while he could only see Tucker, he figured he didn’t mind Felix. Those cons were a reach, if he considered them any longer. Which he would have had he not found himself in the middle of this tight situation. He’d made up his mind. As Simmons was pulled out of the room by two unknown guards, Felix was being scolded, and his hand continued to twitch. As he was brought back to his closet, thrown against the wall, and locked in. 

As he sat in total, and complete darkness, Simmons decided once and for all. He could trust Felix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this ridiculously late update. It took me a few rewrites to make sure it flowed well and I’m decently happy with the results. I!!! Have no excuse.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “So you feel entitled to a sense of control,”  
> -Mikky Ekko, Who Are You, Really?

Locus’ hand brushed against the wall, the dampness that Felix was so eager to complain about barely present. No matter how many times Locus explained to him that was just how underground buildings worked, it never got through to his head. Thickskulled, Locus would call it, even if he knew Felix was simply opinionated. Not a thing could slip into his mindset without his deep consideration.

“How did it go?” Locus asked as the door to the room was opened. He was overdressed for the occasion, he realised as Felix hurriedly threw his upper armour aside. Either impatience or... no, just impatience when it came to Felix. He needed to hold himself together.

“Brilliant,” Felix said as he rummaged through files in the cabinet by the wall, “and that wasn’t sarcasm, before you ask.”

“I know when you’re being sarcastic.”

“I can never tell.” Felix extracted a file, one that Locus had become all too familiar with. He joined Felix by the cabinet just in time to see him open it and scramble around the top of the filing tower for a pen. After muttering to himself about hard copies of files, ones that only a few of them had access to, Felix scribbled something down under ‘Medical History’.

“You got that out of him?” Locus said, his eyes roaming across Felix’s loopy handwriting. He wouldn’t pair the two up, it was too elegant for a foul mouthed mercenary like Felix.

He was met without a response while Felix added ‘voluntary’ to the end of his sentence, crossing the ‘t’ with gusto. The file met Locus’ hands with a forceful push, so he could admire the full case of Richard Simmons’ Medical History, the type writer font that they’d printed off from the databanks of Sim Troopers much easier to understand than Felix’s own scroll. As much as it was delicate, beautiful, every letter was too close together.

‘Cyborg(?) surgery, performed by Sergeant _______ on Private First Class Richard J. Simmons due to the absence of the team’s provided robot. Private Dexter Grif needed replacement limbs due to a tank accident. Consent for the provision of his own limbs was given under medication, entirely voluntary.’

“What do you think? Look official?”

“Felix, you aren’t forging documents. You’re providing us with information.”

“Come on, let me have fun. I had to hear him babble like a bitch for like an hour-“

“Twenty minutes.”

“- so I deserve some forgery practice.”

Locus just shook his head and handed the folder back to Felix, who in turn slipped it back into the file. Though silent, he arched an eyebrow as Felix pulled out yet another file, one that they hadn’t been asked to examine. Mainly due to the unlikelihood of it proving any use to their cause, but intrigue got the best of Locus as he took his helmet off for a better look. Dexter Grif.

“Felix.”

“Locus,” Felix said, dragging the ‘o’ out too long. He looked positively pleased with himself as he flicked through the sheets of the document, eyes scouring the information that they hadn’t read since they learnt of their involvement with Project Freelancer. “It’s to help our cause.”

“How?”

“We need to break him, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to my inability to count like a normal person, I’ve decided to do somethin a wee different every 10 chapters as to not confuse myself! ;P


	11. Sad, Sad Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You’re losing in a staring contest with whatever’s in your mirror.”  
> -tea, a conversation about identity

“Don’t forget to move the water container, it looks like it’s about to rain.”

“Can I get the Blues to help me with that?”

“Don’t trust them with such a valuable resource! Shame on you!”

“Right. Of course. So I assume you’re free, then.”

“No backtalk, Private.”

And with that, the Reds continued with their morning rations. It tasted vaguely of oatmeal, could’ve even been nice once, but it was mushy. None of them left were particularly good cooks: Grif could put things in an oven just fine, Wash could only follow directions too precisely, nobody trusted Caboose with so much as a spoon, Tucker just ate things raw, and Sarge only knew what he was doing if he had a barbecue and a spatula. Not that piling mush into serving dishes required a culinary expertise, but at least one of the Franks would make it taste more of what it intended to be.

Sarge brought the dish up to his nose to sniff out any arsenic (something he’d done for years) despite having eaten a fair portion of it. Grif poked at it with his finger, not trusting the way it moved. Food’s food, even slimy barely oatmeal was something he could swallow down. He’d had worse, Kai once told him he should enter the amount of times he’d had food poisoning to earn some sort of world record, but they were thirteen and nine so really didn’t know how to do that. Other than that, the idea had merit.

The small fire in the middle of the meeting area began to die down. Well, meeting area as in a circle of empty crates that they had assigned a seating plan for. It doubled as a handy locker system, even if Wash checked them regularly to make sure nobody was hoarding rations as what they’d managed to salvage was already depleting. Sooner or later, they’d have to resort to eating the surrounding wildlife. That probably required a finer hand to make edible, so Grif would prefer if it was postponed until they found their way out of here.

For a hole with as many cave systems and rock structures as this one, the crash site seemed like a dead end no matter where you ventured off into. Okay, sure, maybe Grif had only explored one system, and yes, fine, it was because he was looking for a napping spot. But he was sure the higher ups would inform them if there was en exit that seemed viable, at least one of them must have explored every nook and cranny they could possibly reach. He had bet Tucker ten dollars that the only way to escape was though a tunnel that sat just five centimetres from Caboose’s fingertips when he jumped.

Tucker was on the floor. With his back against his seat, he curiously examined his breakfast. His face was contorted into disgust at his share of oatmeal, checking the bottom of his container if anything had leaked out. Leaning across to see what Caboose’s looked like, despite Wash trying to coerce him into doing his share of duties, he seemed satisfied about something. Maybe he thought Wash gave him the worst serving possible, or maybe he just wanted to check that Wash was as incompetent as he was back at Valhalla. Consistency was key.

With his last mouthful of oatmeal down, the Blues had finally worked an agreement of their task distribution. Tucker was going on the remains of the ship at some point, so Grif would probably tag along. Ship duty was much more fun with someone else, so even if Grif did next to nothing, at least Tucker wouldn’t be alone. Caboose was supposed to be joining him, but nobody really knew how to convince him anymore.

“Hey ‘Boosey,” Grif said once Sarge was out of earshot, “come help me with the water.”

“Okay!” At least Caboose still sounded like himself, his voice was full of joy and childlike wonder.

Grif waited for him to finish, but somewhere along the line, Caboose offered the rest of his rations to Grif. Both of them looked around, but Sarge had officially disappeared and the other Blues were by the comm tower. He said his thanks through a mouthful of Caboose’s oatmeal, the two of them playing with their own feet while they waited for Grif to finish. Thankfully, they were both comfortable enough with each other for awkward silence to be a thing of the past.

Finally, they got up off their crates, left everything in Wash’s place for him to deal with, and set off into the base. This crack in the wall still surprised Grif every time he walked in without it crumbling. If the structure not collapsing in on itself was the nicest thing Grif had to say about it, despite the ‘renovations’ done over their time here, then he couldn’t find a better way to insult it. He didn’t like it. Grif kicked the wall before he approached the water tank. Normally, Grif would just let Caboose carry it on his own. But the frown, the one that been ironed on for a while on Caboose’s mouth didn’t give him much confidence. Neither did the distance in his gaze.

After clearing the top of the container from toothbrushes and cups, they got either side. Grif rolled his back and then they bent down to lift. It was strangely light, but at least this was for a reason. There was a loud groan from either side as they started working with it though, it was still a pain to bring out to the open. Caboose said absolutely nothing, but Grif just wanted to get it over with so would’ve ignored him anyway. Closing into the meeting area’s general direction, Grif pulled his companion along with him.

It dropped on the ground with a thud. Both stood by awkwardly in case it broke apart, but were satisfied when it didn’t. Grif slumped his shoulders and said, “Well, that’s me done. Thanks for your help.” 

“Don’t you have-“

“Yeah, but I’m not doing anything else. Are you doing your orders?”

“No, I was going to look for slugs.”

Grif didn’t know if that was literal, or one of Caboose’s sayings from the moon colony he was raised on. He gave him the benefit of the doubt and didn’t ask, also not being too bothered by it. Both of them stood around staring at each other. Honestly, Grif wanted to nap. He was tired, couldn’t sleep last night. He didn’t want to get too far into it. Ever since the crash, he’d been having the same three dreams, all of them leaving a sour taste in his mouth and a yearning in his eyes.

“I’ll come with you,” Grif said. If he thought any longer about it, then he’d end up how he was at the beginning of it all. He wanted to be useful to someone at least. Plus, if he did nap, who knew what memories would work up into the front of his mind with a twisted knife.

“It’s okay, I’m good on my own. I mean-“ Caboose tripped over his own words, but Grif knew the feeling too well. Seeing such a people’s person so intent on being alone, to cry or to distract himself, almost hurt as much as the sleepless nights where Grif did the same.

“Right, yeah. I get you. I’m... I’m sorry about Church, Caboose,” Grif said with a falter in his voice, “I really am. He... I mean, um, he should’ve said goodbye.”

Caboose just nodded, shuffling where he stood. There were a million more things Grif could’ve said, more he should have. There were about two things Grif wished Caboose said back to him. Honestly, if Grif were to listen to Wash and talk to someone, anyone, Caboose would understand the most. As the two of them, they probably should have already had a conversation. But Grif got the hint, and Caboose got his, and they turned to walk in opposite directions.

He was going to find Tucker, in one of the caves where he saw Wash drop him off, to wait for ship duty. Another excuse to not think, to look for slugs himself, he guessed. He looked behind him to find Caboose wander around in the fashion he did so often recently, could hear his ragged breathing from here. Maybe he should comfort him more. No, he didn’t want comfort, he just wanted to let it out. Grif couldn’t watch anymore, the process familiar in ways he didn’t want to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I had a lot of tests to revise for! I also took a break after chapter ten, and kept rewriting this chapter, so it got very messy and very delayed. >.<


	12. Baby Steps To Productivity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Sometimes the best thing you can do, is not a damn thing,”  
> -Air Traffic Controller, Sometimes

“So then he said he wanted to be alone.”

“Poor dude. Good on you for getting him to do something.”

“He probably feels as sorry for me as we do for him.”

“Oh. S-“

“Don’t apologise.”

He wasn’t going to apologise. But Grif didn’t want to hear the name, so he pretended to mishear the word that fell from Tucker’s lips. Their eyes grazed across each other’s faces to judge the right thing to say next. Whether they just changed the subject, or continued to simply comment on the state Caboose had found himself in. Whatever they did was welcomed. He’d already spent too long thinking about his own feelings today for his own liking, which didn’t actually mean anything as ‘too long’ was any time at all.

Grif waited for Tucker to fill the silence. Unlike with Caboose, they were better when they were talking to each other. Tucker needed the chatter to distract from the thoughts that Grif knew he tried to repress. Grif just preferred Tucker to his own internal monologue, which no longer sounded like his own voice. He couldn’t place it - or maybe he could, but didn’t want to admit that - so he opted to drown it out with useless small talk. Hey, at least he finally knew what he was doing when it came to standing around and talking.

It took a few minutes for Grif to realise that he had to start the conversation up. Tucker was staring at his own hands as his thumbs ran over one another in an anxious battle for superiority. There was a small frown in his eyes, eyes that looked so distant from reality. Glassy and bored. Grif looked between Tucker sat on the floor of the ship and the panel on the wall directly across from them a few times before shrugging his shoulders and making his way towards it.

Tucker obediently followed, shaking his head to drag himself back to the situation. Grif unscrewed the panel with the screwdriver Wash didn’t know he had. Tucker grinned when he saw it, and Grif smirked right back. They pulled the panel aside, and stared at the amass of wires behind it.

On one of their first of many trips to the ship, the one where they’d found said screwdriver and some rations, they marked the panels as something of interest. They kept it on the back burner until the rest of the team started to pull their hair out over the state of the equipment, to swoop in and be heroes with fistfuls of wires. Who cares if they don’t fit with the tower? If they attempted to help, then nobody could tell them to stop meandering around laughing about the state of each other’s hair.

Sure, the comm tower should just be drawn as a lost cause right now, but that didn’t mean coming back from the ship empty handed. Tucker had decided that they’d collected all the clothes that could come in use, Grif didn’t want to go scavenging for anything too out of reach as to keep his back from hurting, so they were stuck with the wires. Not that it took too much effort to unscrew a metal plate and pull them out. If they were strategic, the two of them could really milk this for all its worth and spend most of their time on the ship dicking around.

“What would Sarge say to that?” Tucker asked as Grif pulled out a few blues from the hole they’d uncovered. With a very forced laugh, Grif shrugged again.

“Something about how I’m a useless soldier, or something. I get it five times a day. He can kiss my ass.” Grif manoeuvred around some greens to pull out even more blues. He looked up at Tucker as they exchanged smiles once more.

“Are you disrespecting a commanding officer, private?”

“I’d sure as fuck hope so.”

His laughter was more natural as they finished pulling the wires from the component, neither of them bothered enough to wonder what they powered. Tucker made an offhand remark about the lack of red wires, and how there was always red wires in movies, which Grif got a sixth sense sort of realisation creeping up to the forefront of his mind, before shutting it down and moving on, deciding instead to wander out of their current section of the ship. Tucker followed him yet again.

They regained their usual banter, not caring what the other said. They decided to disregard the other panels for now as they dragged their feet around the remains of the spacecraft without rhyme or reason. It was unfortunately a loop of sections that were easy to get to, they knew the remnants of some weapons was accessible through a ceiling door and a code on a panel Grif had forgotten the location of. No point going up there, really, so after the fifth time of almost walking down the corridor to the bunks, they decided to simply disembark.

Double checking they had what they intended to show off as work, they backtracked their current route to make to the hole they clambered in through. Grif didn’t know how all of them had at some point climbed loose rocks to safely get up here without any of them falling, but the Reds and Blues didn’t particularly tend to make much logical sense. If they were to die, he knew it would be in some dramatic fight scene, not falling from- Right. Right... falling. He went through this every damn time they left this cursed hunk o’ junk. It was an uncanny mix of Sidewinder and blaring red lights, his last words a name that couldn’t properly escape his throat.

Simmons slit in between his teeth like the cheap caramel popcorn you would buy for a dollar fifty, bothering him until he finally thought he’d picked it out with dirtied nails, only for his tongue to realise it was there at the deadest hours of the night.

He hadn’t thought about him in a while. Or maybe he had. Grif wasn’t the biggest fan of today’s incessant emotions, because Church cut apart old wounds for all of them. His hadn’t even finished healing, he didn’t think. Grif looked over to Tucker, who in the silence Grif had created, was staring off into the distance with a tracing paper frown. It wasn’t quite Tucker, his teeth were hardly bared, his nose was scrunched. Grif probably shouldn’t call it a frown. A grimace? No, that was too scared. His eyes weren’t as glassy as they were twenty five minutes or so ago.

He should say something. He did. Grif said, “come on, let’s hand these off to Wash and go do absolutely nothing.”

“Yeah, not really in the mood for much else,” Tucker said with one final look behind him, “you good to go down?”

“Never am. Let’s go,” Grif said as he slowly lowered his feet down to begin his descent.

As ever, the rocks were threatening to slide from his feet. It was a balancing act until his toes could reach the ramp of land that led them back to ground. Grif was a stile for Tucker as he helped him down to his side, on their way down to where they could hear the familiar frustrated shouts. As Tucker pulled out a story Grif had heard a dozen times, his eyes darted around to try and find where someone else was. Wash was nowhere to be seen, but probably under the comm tower. Sarge was nowhere to be seen, which wasn’t a good omen. Caboose was coming out of their hole in the wall with armfuls of sandbags. Odd looking slugs.

Their water container looked odd in the middle of their playing field, mainly due to the fact that the rain they were expecting lasted five minutes and barely got anything wet. It was a light drizzle that Sarge thought would short something out. Once Grif and Tucker’s feet had hit the dying grass at the bottom of the cliff structure, Tucker’s story had reached the part where he was passed out in a gas station on the highway, so it was Grif’s opportunity to stop it there before he got to the part about being violently sick. He nudged Tucker to shut him up, and they made their way to the comm tower, producing wires from their pockets.

“You’re back early,” Wash said as they approached.

“Short trip, Wash, it’s not like there’s anything left up there.” Tucker offered his hand out to take the tangled strings of blues and yellows from Grif’s palms. He slapped them over right away.

“You don’t know that. What did you find?”

“Bunch of wires. And your screwdriver, but we totally don’t know how it got up there.” Grif grinned, albeit a little uncomfortable, as Wash finally emerged from under the comm tower with ironed features. He took the wires off Tucker, didn’t make a remark, and went back under to fiddle with some electrical work.

“A thanks would be nice,” Tucker prompted. It was too late, however, as Wash was already reinvested in whatever electrical work was too complex for him to care about. The ship team met eyes, shook their heads, and decided to go settle down for the remainder of today in the Blue’s portion of the base.

On their way over, they stopped and said their hello’s to Caboose, who almost dropped a sandbag on his foot. Tucker tried to invite him to come with them, but as he’d done one thing today, the checklist in Caboose’s head of activities was ticked and stamped as done. He just picked up the near miss projectile, nodded his goodbye, then went to add it to his piles.

Gosh, now that he thought about earlier, Grif’s back was really copping for it today. It wasn’t in the best of shape anyway, pairing his posture with his lack of exercise, but the exertion must have really hit the nail in. He should borrow from Tucker’s stash of clothes to cushion his mat tonight, or even ask for the spares. They were just at the entrance to their base, standing still as Tucker bent down to tie his boots up and Grif stretched for his bones’ sake.

“I might take some of your clothes for my mat, actually, my back is killing me,” Grif said to which Tucker shot up from his kneeling. They locked eyes, Tucker’s bottom lip being bitten raw.

“Alright,” he said after a minute, “but I have to show you something first.” Grif thought that was too ominous to be anything good, though he didn’t have the energy to really shoot a witty comment his way. Instead, he lagged behind a little as Tucker led them to where the Blues slept. What could he possibly hide here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We really out here updating a month at a time. >.< Hopefully once my schedule cleans up a bit it can be more frequent! \o/ And I hope people keep reading this as it goes on. It’s nearly the end of Grif’s first mini arc so I’m real excited for that! 0; Next chapter shouldn’t be fun! >:3c


	13. Polyester Threads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We have the cure for your crisis never patent pending, if you come along with us the doors are never ending.”  
> -The Hawk In Paris, Freaks

“Okay, I was going to give you this earlier, but you know how Wash is-“

“Why would he care?”

“I have no idea, I mean- I do, but...”

“Come on, Tucker.”

“Here.”

It was more or less shoved into his hands. He blinked, once, twice, too many times in the three seconds he had to process it. Were his hands shaking? Or his eyes? He balled it into his fists then released the tension. Oh fuck. The fabric was worn, but no unusual tears. The zip looked missing, though, but he couldn’t care less, as if he could zip it up in the first place. His thumb ran along the zipper teeth, met with a mild coldness. It still shuddered a breath out of him, icy cold on his lips. After a minute, Grif looked up to Tucker, who was staring right at him.

He wanted to say something. Anything. A mix between ‘I can’t believe you hid this from me’ and ‘why did you think I wanted to see this?’, but no words got past his teeth. Grif just watched every emotion he could name flicker through Tucker’s irises, and then the ones he couldn’t. There was something sorrowful in the way he held himself. Both of them sitting on his mat in very parallel ways, but the exaggerated slump of his shoulders and the leaning of his back told an entirely different story. He’d tilted his head to get a proper look at the thing Grif didn’t know how to let go of.

As much as he wanted to deliberate whether or not to give it back to Tucker and run away without ever mentioning it again, the fabric melded into the creases of his palms seamlessly. Grif returned to staring at every speck of dust that he would have to brush off, the remnants of a broken spacecraft. There was no way he could give it up now, but he didn’t know why anybody would think that this would make Grif any happier. It honestly felt surreal, yet the ground he thought he floated so high above was merely two centimetres from the tips of his toes. He could land. Tucker said something. Grif didn’t hear it. One of his hands had finally left from scrunching the poor thing into wrinkles. It found the chest, the logo that he knew too well, tracing it with his eyes and finger tips.

There was a loose thread, but if Grif were to tug at it, the damage that he knew would be something he didn’t. Like the hole in the left outside pocket that he was told ‘was there before I got it, Grif’. As if the UNSC could make any mistake with their uniformity. It begged the question of how exactly it ended up there? He didn’t want to ask, because if he was interested in the hole, that was weird. Because of course he wasn’t interested in some random hole, was he? No, it was more than that. It would always be more than that. When he’d admit that, he didn’t know.

“So... um. What d’you think?”

“I don’t know,” Grif said, “I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to take it back, or?”

“I...no. That’s okay.”

Grif pressed the jacket to his face, and it smelt wrong. He sighed into it. He expected a mouthful of dust, not entirely delighted when he got what he knew was coming. What would he do with it? Wear it, was the obvious option. It would fit, he knew it fit. He’d stretched out enough items of clothing to know that everything fit eventually. Was he entirely sure he wanted to wear it, though? Gut instinct was no. He was not ready. He wasn’t ready to see this, let alone do anything but look at it. What was Tucker thinking?

His friend was told not to show him. Wash didn’t want Grif to see it, maybe because he knew. People seemed to have a grasp on him before he did. Ugh, Grif thought, he was getting too philosophical. Too trapped in his head, but that was not a Grif flaw by any means, and now he had this jacket, and that wasn’t right. This was not right. If Grif had any lick of common sense, he’d shove it back into Tucker’s hands and storm off, tell on Sarge as if he was a little boy crying to his father.

Maroon fabric sat in his hands.

Tucker had handed him Simmons’ jacket. It was in his possession, pristine other than the fade from it’s time in the ship. Tucker had known about this. Sat on this. Wash knew. Caboose probably knew, by extension, because if he was adamant that Grif shouldn’t had it then there was bound to have been an argument. They had the last trace of a dead man in their possession just among the clothes and hid it from his team. But no, Grif remembered, they were one team now. That didn’t mean anything to Simmons because he listened to Sarge. Fuck, what is he on about?

Grif tried to take a steadying breath. His hair stood on edge. Without looking away from the jacket, Grif spat out, “I’m going to go upstairs.”

“You sure? I think they’re dishing out dinner soon.”

“I’ll be down. You know me.”

“Ha, you play a fair game.”

Of course, Tucker hadn’t the words to say. Neither of them had, in this moment. Maybe if Grif had been given it earlier, then perhaps there would be a more visceral rage boiling under his skin. But now, as he sulked his way over to Red Section, he was more or less numb. Had Tucker waited to hand it on, then... perhaps he’d feel better to have the remnants of his team. He looked down at the jacket as though it was the world’s shiniest treasure, he almost walked into a wall. Idiot, he mumbled in his head.

He swung into Red Section, which had grown significantly. The sudden lack in interest of keeping the sandbag’s in order from his CO left more space to kick, yet there was still the jilt that stuck out like a wall. Grif rounded it, found his mat, ignored the fact that he should’ve stuffed his bed with clothes, and collapsed on it with a harsh puff of breath. Sliding one leg over the other, he unfolded the jacked he’d kept clutched to his chest the entire journey upward. Looking at it again, he didn’t want to look away.

It was... odd. Any confusion he’d had with Tucker had seeped away without a second notice. As his eyes traveled Simmons’ jacket, it became clear all at once. Alone, with the last part - the only part - of him that they’d found. It was oddly nice. Was he ready to wear it now? Certainly not, but he didn’t feel as though he had much choice. His hands acted quicker than his head, and he wrapped it around himself. Sure, it was a tight squeeze, but he’d done this before.

It was wrong. Right. He didn’t know. Grif didn’t need to know, though, because he was warm. Something else was wrapping around him, other than the polyester, and that was nice. Not right, not wrong, but nice. Comforting. Good. Alright. There was something physical for him to grasp at. Something to confirm the existence of Simmons, whose name didn’t feel so hard on his lips. Simmons. Simmons was dead. Wait, actually, that stung to say. Simmons was gone. Still off, but bearable.

Grif slipped his hands into the pockets. The hole was where he expected it, and the other pocket was empty other than some debris. He emptied it out then dusted it off his mat. He checked the inside pocket, felt a slip of paper, and froze. With unmatched speed, his hands moved on. Simmons’ jacket was tailor made for him, like they all were, so the length was admittedly a little awkward. He smiled. For the first time in what felt like years, he smiled because of Simmons.

Right. Now, this was right. The jacket was grounding now, rather than sending him airy. A solid, undeniable object that wrapped around him for safe keeping. Tucker should’ve given this to him earlier, in his opinion, but he couldn’t argue. The fact he had a keepsake, a remembrance to someone he never got to say goodbye to, was nothing short of a lifesaver. What a wonderful thing to have a piece of him to reach out to in the middle of a recount of losing him.

For a while, he sat in silence. Alone, unperturbed, soaking in the experience of sitting cross legged with this newfound comfort. Grif was not thinking of anything at the moment. Whatever rush his head created earlier had subsided, it was starkly blank. Nothing he wrote on the walls made any lasting impression. His breathing was soft. A non sinister squeeze grabbed at his abdomen, a gentle exhale banished it. Every so often, it returned, holding out for the intangible.

He didn’t even wait for Sarge to call him down, Grif knew that if he sat up here any longer then he’d not want to leave. After a minute’s hesitance in regards to donning his new gear, he learnt that he had a hard time taking it off. His gut feeling was not going to let over, belting the jacket in place with it’s desire for a likeness of a hug. He got up, brushed himself down, before going back down to the lower half of the base. As Grif passed where the water container should be, he noted the dryness in his throat. He’d get some when he was outside. Come on, just get it over with.

“Lovely evening we’re having,” Grif said with every intent of a sarcastic remark, “great for a firework’s show. Or maybe we could just shoot our guns in the air.”

“And waste the ammo?” Wash said instantly before adding, “we were just about to come get you. Get over here.”

“A Blue’s giving me orders, Sarge, I think he’s up to something.”

“Good deduction, private! I’ll grab his arms, you punch!”

Grif grinned. Even in the drabness of the evening, they must’ve noticed the jacket. Wash had actually shot Tucker a look during Sarge’s threat. Of course, had this been any other night, then he would’ve called Grif out on looking to stir up trouble, but he didn’t seem too bothered by the weird saunter he’d managed to collect in the past few seconds. Not having much to do by the mouth of the base, Grif made his way over. Collecting his rations and sitting down, Sarge gave him a once over.

“You look different,” Sarge said.

“Thanks,” Grif said back.

And that was the end of that.

“Thanks to you, too, Tucker.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah! Anytime, dude.”

It was a night like yesterday’s, but something switched in the back of his mind. Absolutely zilch was different, fundamentally Grif knew that. There’d still be a struggle to keep it up. There’d always be a struggle. Yet, it was the first time in a long while he’d felt alright. He didn’t know how, but Grif was okay. Even if it took a while to happen, they were all going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks at da clock reading 12:13am*  
> *looks away*  
> But! This came out closer to the last one (a little bit ;P) so there’s some improvement! This was supposed to be an earlier chapter, then a later one, but I like it here! This idea wasn’t one of my initial ones when drafting this story three years ago, but it came up this year snd I loved it so I had to include it! 0:<
> 
> Anywayz follow @xziris on tumblr lol ajdnsnd


	14. Destruction Of Military Property

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for knives and bodily harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You make your way into my veins, course right through my limbs and dig your way into my brain.”  
> -PVRIS, Smoke

Simmons was absolutely not okay. He was aware of about three things. First of all, he was screaming. His lungs hacked up very last bit of carbon dioxide his body had clung to, a fountain of air dispersing from behind his teeth. His clenched jaw muffled the screech, not by much. Not one ounce of sympathy at this very moment could silence the built up distress call, he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t stop even after they’d packed up and left. Second of all, there was a boot on his cheek. Simmons’ head was kept firmly on the ground, so he couldn’t see what they were doing, even if he could feel it tenfold. He knew who the boot belonged to, he’d heard the name before. Didn’t mean he remembered it all that well, not that it mattered. Each of them were equally low, equally against him. Whoever this was, he couldn’t pick them out in a crowd of similarly dressed soldiers. Third of all, he was being torn apart at the seams.

His leg involuntarily kicked. He felt their movements, their breath, their thoughts. Every point of pressure put upon his mechanical limbs shot blinding hot electricity up his biological contraptions. It was scorching. They’d long since thrown aside the panelling that guarded sensitive parts from the elements, undoing an entanglement of parts and bolts. Their fingers slit into tight gaps to dig into the innermost corners of his own body, tugging apart his own remains. One of them had his thumb jammed on the button that was supposed to be an emergency shut down, though the wire that led it to where the signal was supposed arrive had been discarded as well. Simmons really wished that it worked.

They should’ve just taken his leg off. It would’ve been so much easier. If he had anything left in his larynx, then he’d probably not tell them anyway. Someone in his peripheral hearing asked for the screwdriver, and he begged to not know what they were about to do to him. He could feel saliva build up in his throat, uncomfortably choking him. Of course Simmons couldn’t spit it out, the foot that smushed his head to the ground was not letting up. His breathing was short, unpredictable rhythms of air just willing itself to escape. Simmons wanted to scrunch his face up and flinch, cry, or do anything. But he wouldn’t be able to relax his muscles if he did that, for however long he would be stuck in this room.

He knew this room. Hated this room, in fact. Even if he’d only been here once, it was engrained. They’d not done a very good job cleaning it, but that was to be expected if he was to return. Before he was shoved in, the first thought that echoed in his mind was the haziness of his first visit. The blurred lines around the men, the way his mind was a cocktail of paranoia and sleep deprivation. The few hours he’d actually managed to catch since then were filled with a watery grip on his neck, accompanied by weights on his ankles dragging him further into the body of water. Everything crawled all the way back to his mind the second he recognised the faded walls.

The only difference to the room was the cot pressed against the wall to the left of the door. It had what must be the thinnest mattress anybody in the facility could find. Any suspicion or pondering as to why was cut short by the current endeavours, though. As much as he got pushed to the ground these days, it still didn’t prepare him for the wind leaving his body at such an unequivocal force. Did he use that word right? Probably not. Simmons scowled at this, though his face still was unable to do as he told it. He’d stopped screaming. When that had happened, Simmons wasn’t aware of. Over the clatter at his leg, he didn’t hear his voice lull.

Something was pulled. An error message was burned into his left eye, a part somewhere else started to beep. His chest began to heat up. Whirring so, so loud. His leg was jerking more violently now, more violently than the occasional kick that they’d caused up until now. He could feel sparks form on what remained of his left arm. The respite from screaming didn’t last long. Pain. It could only be described as pain, any other word would make it sound more poetic than it was. It travelled up his back, shot into his skull, sending signals of pure and utter pain to every other part of his body. It was uncontrollable. Every little movement wasn’t his own doing.

Over. And over. And over, over, over over. Simmons screeched louder than ever, unable to physically move any other part of his body, all movement was overwritten by spasms caused by faulty configurations. The foot on his head had left, but he couldn’t move to get a better view of what was happening. All he could do was react, to the pain and to the voices that filled the air surrounding him. They seemed too calm, too patient with the show before them. Maybe this was what they wanted. Wouldn’t they have asked a question, though? Shouldn’t they have? Did they? Was he just not answering? He needed to get out of his head, he needed to take control of his own body again. He needed to get out. Out.

His foot collided with something. Not something. Someone. Someone who was fiddling with his biomechanics. He’d kicked them. Oh no. No no no no. An external force, fight or flight reflexes maybe, shut his jaw. The room fell silent, other than the clunking of Simmons’ limbs against the floor paired with his scream-diluted whimpers. If he could squirm, he would. Wriggle away from the onslaught he brought himself. How much he wanted to yell “it wasn’t on purpose” to the figure looming large above him. What had he done? Oh no. No no no no.

The foot still by his head pushed it so that he was able to look up. His head was still trembling on his neck, and one of his lobes kept sparking. Simmons’ leg was more wild now, along with his torso randomly arching his back. He still couldn’t see what was happening. But he felt even more than he did before. Metal on metal shouldn’t hurt him. He shouldn’t feel the scrape of a knife on his chest, but so close to where his mechanical heart beat, every scratch in the armour sent wrong signals back to his brain. His breathing, as much as it could hastened. Though his chest didn’t rise like it use to, the tightness wasn’t foreign. It was omniscient.

The soldier cut a slit in the little remains of his under armour. It pierced the leftovers of a different life, and Simmons didn’t even know where the solider pulled the knife from. That was not his top priority. Nothing else than the moment should really cross his mind, because he really should know by now that this wasn’t his last breath. Simmons should just suck it in until they’d had their fun. But that did not stop the ghost of a face fighting his breaking brain for power. Every attempt he made to desperately grasp for that image, it refused to materialise.

On his chest was another panel, one that guarded his delicate organs from the elements. Or, at least, it did. The soldier didn’t even use the screwdriver he knew they had. The knife lodged under the metal plate to pry it open. Despite his partial paralysis, Simmons found it in him to cry out once more. It sent a ripple up to his brain, his ears began to ring.

“You happy you fought back now, huh?” The solider asked. She had a low growl to her voice, gravelly. It reminded Simmons of his nan, who spent sixty of her eighty years smoking.

“I didn’t mean to,” was all he wanted to say. His body still kicked in bad places, froze in worse. The face began to cling to the forefront of his mind again, begging Simmons to just consider it for longer than half a second. It had an unsatisfied smile, tired eyes. Fight against it. Fight for it. Simmons didn’t know what to do anymore.

“I wonder what we can find,” she said as he felt her hand delve into his torso, “this looks important.”

He didn’t know what she pulled, but whatever happened, stopped his twitching body. In fact, he was pretty sure it stopped everything. While it cancelled the error message, his eye rolled back into its socket. His leg collapsed to the floor with no grace. His mind went empty. All he could do was watch. And feel. Feel the sudden pressure of a hundred kilos pressing down on his unassuming body, crushed beneath its weight, wiping out every nerve ending, sizzling out every atom and cell.

She started to admire the knife, looking between her blade and the gaping hole in Simmons’ body. If her helmet was off, Simmons would assume she’d be sneering at him with utter delight. He tried to ward away whatever force strapped his body to the ground, but what good would it do him if he could? He was crazed. He managed to lift a single finger, though it knocked every last scrap of energy out of him. It was no use, he could feel his iris shrinking, this was no use.

Overwhelming.

A blade to his lung. It wasn’t stabbing him, but the flat edge of the weapon hurt just as much.

His eyes and ears were filled with static.

A ripple shot throughout his body.

The face showed itself clearer now, offering salvation. His lips were mouthing words, words that Simmons didn’t think existed. Nothing right now existed. Why did she not just rip it out of him? If they were dismantling him then... please, just get it over with. There must be an explanation, right? Evidence, explana- his body screeched with pain once more as the knife twisted itself slightly amongst his organs. Deep in his system somewhere, the blade was working its way through to things more vital, more irreplaceable. Things that only his creator knew how to recreate - the name evaded him - and he just wanted to cry.

She’d cut something off. For a second, he wasn’t quite sure what. Then, he could almost pinpoint the exact second his brain cut off. The face sank into blackness, the static faded away, and his already limp body concussed to a new flatness. His stomach told him he was dizzy, his head couldn’t wait to agree. He couldn’t feel the knife in his chest now, but what he wouldn’t give just to know he could feel anything at all. Unconsciousness offered a hand, and what little he could move accepted it graciously.

When Simmons filtered back into reality, there was a few more things he was aware of. There was blood in his mouth, and his nose hurt. He could wiggle his fingers now, the tips of them feeling the oddly damp floor where he laid. With too much effort, Simmons opened his eyes, looking up and seeing someone sitting over him.

“Come on, he’s awake, you better hurry up,” someone in a Scottish accent (Glaswegian, if Simmons was remembering correctly) said, “what’d you say?”

“I said that I can’t hurry this up unless you want me to have blood on my hands,” another voice said in a vaguely mid-European accent.

Whoever was by his head now held a cloth to Simmons’ nose. He had a sneaking suspicion that someone broke it. But why were they helping him? Either of them, it didn’t make much sense. Simmons wasn’t going to exactly complain, however, as within the minute, he could feel the electricity kickstart the blood flow to the rest of his body. He could twitch his feet without a pushback, entirely voluntarily. Within a few more, his eye rolled back into place. It darted around to find a soldier, helmet discarded, working on his chest. His head was clean shaven, there was an ugly scar that ran down it like a hair parting.

It was longer to put him together again then tear him apart. Were they ordered to do that? Specialists? No, because just then some more beeping sounded from the car alarm that was installed for... um. He couldn’t remember. They managed to dull it quickly.

“I think I’m done, let’s drop him off and run. Birch’ll start asking questions,” the soldier by his chest said, looking up to face his companion. His face was terrifyingly young, with a split lip and a blackened eye.

“To who? Cannae ask us,” the other soldier said, “ask Reynolds? Poor geezer dinnae know his own name.”

“Alright, I’m coming to help you sit him up,” said the solider by his chest, ignoring the comment the other made. The unmistakable clink of armour carried him to join his partner.

Hands gently guided him up into a sitting position, heat rushing down from his head to the rest of his biological parts. They scooped under his arm and around his waist, and heaved him up without much trouble. He hadn’t eaten since his last meeting with Felix, a million years ago now. Reminiscent of being led to the closet the first time, they slowly walked him over with poor legs and a stiff body. Turning him round was a bit awkward, neither of them could figure it out. When they eventually sat him on the cot, it was as uncomfortable as it looked.

He got a quick, poor look at the other solider. His hair was wild and auburn with thick eyebrows to match. When he smiled at Simmons, he was missing one of his front teeth. Simmons didn’t smile back.

“I’ll be back. I’ll uh. I’ll get you water, or somethin’,” he said, nodding his head to affirm his own declaration. 

“Come on, Hartley, we have to go!”

“Right!”

He flashed Simmons another toothy smile, and he watched on as Hartley ran to his friend, grabbed a helmet off of him, and slide it on. His fingers, while full of pins and needles, grasped the fabric covering the paper thin mattress. The door slammed shut. His nose bled more. On the floor, discarded, was the small panel he knew fit on his neck. He shivered at the sight of it. He’d dream of today again if he slept, Simmons knew that, so all he did was stay sitting, wondering when he could tell Felix about the new helping hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dudes we are slowly building up to one of the first bits of imagery I ever had for this fic (in 2017!!) and I am looking forward to that! :D I hope you enjoy! Muah.


	15. Restrictive Tape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for knives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I’m out of my head, of my heart and my mind, ‘cause you can run but you can’t hide.”  
> -SIAMÉS, The Wolf

The familiarity of a change in rotation outside the door snapped Simmons out of a trance he didn’t even know he’d fallen into. It brought about a slight clarity of the face, of his face. He could place the colours, he could place the time, the date, the conversation, all of it but the details that mattered most. His fingers slipped away every time he tried to caress his cheek, or ran his hand through his hair. Those eyes drew a strange line between what was really there before him, what was conjured in the back of his mind, and what he wanted to be true. If he could, he’d tell him to run. Find cover, he begged, don’t stay here. Every time he’d formed the words, he’d dematerialise. Leaving Simmons alone again. He tried to ignore the shuffling outside to bring himself back to that state, but his ears were too tuned in to indulge his own unrealities.

Tearing his eyes away from where they’d focused, they stared expectantly at the door for something to happen. Something always happened. His leg started to bounce, his teeth started biting his lip. His leg was stiff, it hadn’t quite recovered. There was a burning in his eye, the one he’d get after hours of staring at a screen trying to figure out some complex order that grew more confusing every time he thought too hard about it. Sore, like he’d been crying, as well. He gently lifted his hand, dabbed his thumb under his eye, and wiped away the moisture that had formed. The sudden off balance nearly tipped him to the side, his body mass long since dwindling past the point of being a reliable anchor. Simmons tore his hand away to support himself, though the pressure on his still stinging wounds drew a sharp yelp out of him. He bit his lip harder, hoping that he hadn’t indicated anything to the clutter outside.

He let out a sigh, he’d not heard a break from beyond the door. He ducked his head, and his hair fell in his face. Simmons had stopped cutting it after about a year at his first base, it grew quickly, it became too much of a chore to take care of it. It must be knotted, greasy, and split. Simmons still suspected there was his own vomit clinging to it. Gross. He would prefer the whole mess to be chopped right off, every tangle weighing more than his meekly figure. There must be a hair tie hidden within it somewhere, a thought he didn’t want to peruse. He had too many thoughts that he didn’t like, and he had them far more often than he’d ever be okay with. Nobody cared about a hair tie, but they care about the delicately strong hands that would be so eager to help them pull their hair into it. Like the face, Simmons could picture many things about them apart from the details that counted.

They disappeared before he could really latch onto them, extending and pulling away. Simmons pulled in his head to try and find them, to have the colour flash in his retinas, but all he could do was look into the eyes that kept haunting him. Brownish green, brown. Colours he could place. Colours. Orange sunsets on the roof with... orange. Orange. Oh fuck. He needed to stop doing this. It always came back to him, it always would. Simmons shook his head, a slow shooting pain taking over his head. The face slowly faded away again. Simmons chewed the inside of his mouth with great concentration to ward him off, but he knew that he’d come back. Just for now, he had too many things to focus on. Which was two, which really, really didn’t feel right to say.

The door shook in the slightest. The voices had stopped. Simmons’ face instinctively scrunched up, his teeth cut into his tongue. His fingers curled into the mattress he hadn’t slept upon, wondering if he would’ve had time to if he wanted to. Rattling to break into his confines were a presumably innumerable array of soldiers preparing their next strike. His insides still squirmed and stung as his heart began to beat with a determined speed, accompanied by a wheezing whir. It made him desperately want to cough out whatever had started hugging the back of his tongue. His mouth dried out entirely.

“Well, Richard,” a familiar voice said as he walked into the room, “look where you’ve found yourself.”

Simmons found his face, and the two soldiers by his sides. They had different helmet shapes to the ones he’d seen so far, they were domed in a strange way with their visors barely stretching across where their eyes would sit. It gave them the appearance of glaring down at him, sat so uncomfortably on the cot, which he supposed they probably were doing. It wasn’t like Simmons was the guest of honour down here. His knees started knocking against each other where he sat.

“Finally fighting back, hm?” He asked, and Simmons shook his head again. Whatever weak performance he put on was met with a sour look, he assumed he’d hunched into himself to avoid selling into what the man was talking about. “Answer me.”

“No,” Simmons said. It took every particle of energy to even muster the ability to move his jaw. Stiff, the payoff from his constant screaming.

“Liar.”

A tearing caught Simmons‘ eye, and one of the soldiers was pulling a strip of silvery tape off from a wheel he’d not even registered. It took a second too long for Simmons to understand exactly what was going on, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. The scarred man, looking as grey as ever, reached behind him for the strip. Simmons’ pupil shrank, he could throw up again. Alas, all that happened, was the scarred man getting uncomfortably close to Simmons’ face, to the point that Simmons could hear his breathing. It was ever so slightly off, as though he struggled with it. Heavy and inconsistent. His the bags under his eyes clung more prominent than ever, and the scars seemed to have wiggled around to different directions since the last time he noted them.

As the tape was pressed down over his lips the scarred man said, “that should stop you from talking back, at least, and get you to quit that incessant screaming. You’ve been causing my men a lot of trouble. And a lot of earache.”

The processed smell of plastic, alongside the taste of it, hit his senses all at once. It was sticking to the wisps of facial hair he couldn’t shave off, drying off whatever saliva had coated his chapping lips. His nose took extra effort to expel what his mouth no longer could, and while, yes, he was a nose breather anyway, becoming hyper aware of the fact that it was his only option only laboured his freshly wounded lungs further. Just the thought of it sent a claw down his torso. Simmons was a dog; muzzled because of misbehaviour, restricted in his efforts. Like the woman who scarred his organs, he wanted to tell this man that he hadn’t actually meant to.

He made a noise. Muffled entirely. Great.

“Get up,” the man said. Simmons couldn’t bring himself to budge, he was too focused on breathing. He didn’t want to try pressure on his leg just yet, nor was he particularly interested in what the scarred man had to offer. It struck him as odd that he would collect him, usually they would meet face to face after Simmons was dragged to whatever form of questioning and punishment he’d had laid out for him. He didn’t do dirty work like this, not from what Simmons had seen. Unless he got to play active role in maiming him.

Seemingly sick of waiting already, there were beckoning orders from the scarred man who Simmons still didn’t know the name of, and his two guards advanced towards Simmons. Their hands grabbed ahold of him, unnervingly eagerly. The slit down the middle of his under armour split further apart when he was forced to stop leaning over himself. A shiver locked his torso resulting in a halfhearted puff of an attempt by his heating systems. The failed Tetris game of metal to flesh formed unorthodox edges between them, and now the imperfections were on display for the entire underground to see. Could they see his ribs now? He didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see a mirror. No good would come if he could.

As they walked past his discarded panelling, Simmons’ nose scrunched reflexively. It was much less careful than how Hartley walked him, and he wondered where exactly he was. It was Fritz and Hartley who were this man’s right hand men, or at least the ones most likely to cooperate with him, who took him along. He knew them. The other man, the one earlier with Hartley, he had to deduce as Fritz. Does that make the scarred man Birch? It would certainly make sense to assume so, though things have proven to not need sense to particularly exist. Still, for now, he was Birch. Not that placing a name to a face made anything any easier, in fact if even humanised him much more than Simmons would like, but it was easier to refer to him in his internal monologues.

The hallways were as bleak as ever, barren apart from distant, but distinct, footsteps of armoured boots. Simmons shrunk again, so exposed in the little garb he still sported. His legs ached with just a few steps, his robotic foot tantalisingly close to falling off altogether. Orange. Again, orange. He associated these walls with the colour though it never actually appeared. Orange armour. No. Over and over he went, he could barely stop himself. He needed him. He almost tripped over his own feet, as if it would matter. Those dragging him seemed intent on getting to their destination.

Whatever door they were beelining to looked so out of place compared to the usual, plain office decor that remained. It was double, had a glass pane on either door, and no handle. Newly installed, Simmons guessed, a new feature they hollowed out. Simmons stared into Birch’s eyes, they were as insane as he felt. Irises too small for his pupils. Stood grandiosely before the doors, he reached into his jacket, he had the same formal getup as he always did. His hand retracted with the handle of a knife held firmly in it. As he did this, the hands that held Simmons fell off of him, and his already weak legs started to buckle at the knees.

“We’ve decided - myself and a few of my men - that we should let you fight back. So here’s the perfect opportunity to do so, Richard,” Birch said with his head tilted to the side, extending his knife out to Simmons. After a beat of silence, he nudged his hand closer to him. Oh. Simmons took the knife, it weighed him down even more to his right. The soldiers started to retreat. Birch held one of the doors open for him to follow.

The room was massive. Simmons was blasted back to his time at school, where he would hide in the corner of the gymnasium to avoid being picked last for football teams. The track was larger, the netting that hung on the sides of the room were lazy wallpaper against exposed rock, he could still see the cobbles through them. If this was Scoil Arklow Do Bhuachaillí Cumasach, there would be an array of deflated rugby balls, dirtied basket balls, and broken tennis rackets hanging from the netting that drooped from the ceiling. Instead, nobody seemed to have been stupid enough to throw them into the next best thing to oblivion.

Simmons checked behind him to see Birch sidling off to a bench pressed against a stretch of crash mats propped against the stones. He couldn’t read the facial expression from here. Turning to face the expanse of the room again, he finally narrowed down on a figure on the far side. 

As it all clicked into place, Simmons heard Birch call out: “Do show me what you can do, you took down Project Freelancer after all. There’s not enough time to just take it, Richard.“

That bitch. He’d thrown him directly into a spar.

All Simmons could do was beg into his own lips, as well as try to throw in extra curse words. He wanted to shriek in agony, he wanted to ignore the impeding fight and throw his knife right at Birch.

This wasn’t his fault, he never meant to. His knuckles went white holding out the knife to his enemy, his human eye squeezed so tightly shut, anticipating the first blow. It almost went straight through him. A fist to the abdomen, hollowing out whatever actually remained. His opponent’s black armoured hand pierced Simmons, sending him back but not to the floor. He needed to cough up the blockage that built in his throat, instead he could only try to troubleshoot through his nose. He grunted as he aimlessly swung the knife in the vague direction of the soldier, willing it to grow into a sword. Should he throw it? There certainly wasn’t any muscle mass left to make an accurate aim, usually missing anyway.

There wasn’t any time left for him to think, either, as his hesitation cost him vital time. Before he made up his mind, there was a hand on his neck. Simmons tried to scream again, the one thing he knew he could still do. The soldier didn’t keep on to him for too long, they swerved around 180 degrees to throw Simmons directly on the floor. Whatever cracked, be it mechanical or human, Simmons could never place. His leg still wouldn’t work quite right, but his biological limb gave in to his fight or flight instincts to help propel him backwards a teeny bit. Sliding on his back must be doing awful things to it, though right now, he was only focused on buying himself some time.

Birch let out a laugh from where he was sat. Simmons couldn’t find it in him to be disturbed at that, instead sitting up slightly to get a better scope. The soldier he was up against was advancing just slow enough for an easy shot, so Simmons held his arm back behind his head, then threw the blade at them. There wasn’t the expected clatter against the floor, the ring of gymnasium wood and metal. Had he lodged it somewhere? The soldier was no longer looking at him, instead at the knife stuck rather neatly into the door. He needed to get that. 

Using his tired, slit, all around damaged hand as an anchor, he winced as he pulled his weight back on to his feet. The action left him lightheaded, his eye blacked for five seconds or so, before his equally damaged feet tried to get him to run. He hadn’t ran in forever, his lungs hurt, and his leg was falling apart at the wire. As Reds and Blues do, he defied any logical explanation, setting off into a sprint. He ran straight into the black-clad soldier, however, because his subconscious really did seem determined to buy into the Red way.

Ricocheting off of his opponent, Simmons tumbled to the left of them, swinging his arm out to at least try to fight back. He was given the opportunity, may as well take it. His fingers hooked on a piece of armour plating, pulling on it not to pull on the soldier, but to steady his own flailing self. Well, he did that, but in that moment it clicked again what was actually happening, so Simmons simply stood frozen with his hand on the chest plate of a stranger whose only goal right now was to harm him. His apology was masked by plastic, he couldn’t quite figure out why he was apologising.

Their freeze frame tango didn’t faze his dance partner half as much, instead they shoved Simmons to the side, and in a split second had unholstered their gun to point it right at him. He threw himself to the ground a millisecond before the bang went off, he was starting to hyperventilate, or as close as he could to it. Trying to push himself up again, to please just fight back, he couldn’t. He collapsed again, on his chest, unable to get up or breathe. He tried to press his forearm against the scuffed floor, from here he could see every damage it has withheld, but he fell flat once more.

Move, a voice in his head and out of it screamed to him. There was no time to differentiate them, no time to just take it. His knee stung, his foot did not feel attached by much anymore. No time. There was nothing to explain anymore, not right now, there was no question. There was no uncertainty, this was not how he’d die, but this was where a part of him would. Simmons could only whimper.

His opponent hooked a foot under him, flipping Simmons on to his back before leaning down to pick Simmons up by his neck. How unfortunate that that was the only part left of him to properly grab on to. Simmons’ legs were supposed to thrash about wildly, his hand was supposed to close around their wrist. Instead, he was limp. Too weak to fight back, too scared that the rules of the game might change, too little in the face of the super solider. Their fingers locked on more to Simmons’ neck, his airways felt squeezed dry. The edges of his eye went white, his mechanical one scanning the helmet of his opponent. He couldn’t see a visor, but he did see vague green trimmings in a shape. Triangles? No, there weren’t lines to give them three edges. It was an X. He couldn’t even gasp for breath. Everything started to blur.

A door opened. Simmons was dropped.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!” Another familiar voice rang out, one that Simmons knew very well.

“My job,” his opponent said, their voice was almost sultry.

“Put him down. Fuck, man, talking to you is like talking to a dog,” Felix said, exasperated. Simmons was lowered to his feet, which he knew couldn’t support him, and his neck was freed. He looked over to the door to see Felix approaching them, out of armour, shaking his head. Once he was close to them, he threw Simmons’ arm over his shoulder. “‘My job’,” Felix imitated the low tones, “please. It’s like you don’t know how to act without me, almost as if you rely on me.”

“Felix-“

“Save the lecture for later, I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“You’re interrupting-“

“I’m doing the right thing, big guy. Come on,” Felix said to Simmons, who could only nod and hobble with his side pressed against Felix. Bruises were forming on his back already, the lower part of it stinging with every other step. He owed Felix for coming in at just the right time, he’d let him know that. They reached the door, Felix dislodged the knife, turned it round in his spare hand, then used his elbow to breach. Both of them stepped out into the hallway, and Simmons knew he didn’t need to worry now that he was with Felix again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg this was the quickest I’ve ever written that many words! 0: This was a result of me ignoring the easiest bit of homework set by a college teacher ever. ;P Hope you enjoyed!!


	16. Wear It On Your Sleeve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, I can fit two people under my skin, and I will prove it if you will listen, you crawled up in there, you joined me within.”  
> -Jukebox the Ghost, Under My Skin

Their heads were brushing against each other as they hobbled along to their meeting point. Every so often, they would pause for Simmons to wince or catch his breath. A misstep upon his fake foot took a good five minutes to recover from, joints and welding chipping away with this gruesome mundanity. Felix would use this time to look down at the knife again, each time he twisted it digging a sore feeling in the pit of Simmons’ stomach. Even if it was Felix, the way he handled the blade so easily didn’t settle right with him. It was a second nature, something that slit into the rights of the universe. Simmons could sense it. He wasn’t a stranger to the weapon, and weapon proficiency had taken a sharp turn from impressive to life threateningly horrifying in a very short space of time.

Felix didn’t appear to have a set destination, or maybe their journey simply dragged by the amount of pauses Simmons forced them to make. Despite the ache in his neck, he turned his head to see how far away the doors to the gymnasium stood. They’d not gotten very far. His support was rigid with contempt. Every corner of this hallway, of this complex, appeared unnecessary and just another obstacle against him. While he wasn’t as special to have had the entire thing designed to wear him down after a very specific instance, he still lamented the stretches of which the endless streams of doors were situated. A jungle of rooms with a myriad of mysteries behind them. He hoped he’d never see any more of them, he’d never had much luck so far. Then again, Simmons never had much luck anywhere.

After an extremely lagged journey, the two of them arrived at their destination. Or, Simmons assumed it was their destination. Felix had stopped leading him through the complex, though he may have just chosen the nearest suitable room for them to go into. They must have moved millions of miles away. There was a brief pause as Felix looked left and right before he pushed open the door, then he guided Simmons in before shutting it quickly behind him. In the little time he caught to take a glimpse of his surroundings, his eyes fell on the solitary chair in the centre of the room.

It didn’t quite click into place. He was sat down in the seat before a large screen, not dissimilar to the one behind Felix at their first meeting. Apart from this time, the screen was actually on. It presented Simmons with a obviously falsified landscape of wavering cobalt skies and painted baby blue clouds. Earth, was what he thought of straight away. However, the stars were too clustered together, the flowers grew oddly compared to each other, and he hadn’t seen their species before. He couldn’t make out the signature in the bottom left corner, but he identified the looping of an L. Surprisingly peaceful, Simmons would’ve expected a background a bit more chaotic. Instead, it was ever so subtly wrong. 

“Pretty, right?“ Felix asked, leaning against the wall to his right. Now that Simmons could get a proper look at him in his slacks, it struck him just how normal he was. Slight, sure, and a bit on the runty side; other than that, he was anyone else. Negating the collection of scars that worked around his arms, and the one leading from his mouth that Simmons still had to draw his attention away from. It was too hard to not wonder how he’d got it. “I don’t know where it is, but I’d like to see it one day.“

Simmons stared at the screen some more as Felix made petty guesses as to where it was, only able to nod along. Their arrangement gave him a time to catch his breath once more, nurturing himself by just collapsing in an uncomfortable chair. He hunched over himself as Felix would tap his foot against the ground, moving between both objects of attention. Felix‘s gaze stayed averted, again looking at the knife he hadn’t dropped, still spouting off locations Simmons hadn’t actually heard of before. It never occurred to him that Felix might just not be from Earth, or he was just trying to be funny and making up places. Simmons couldn’t decide. He gulped down the doubts that he couldn’t quell, but even that didn’t work.

He flipped it and caught it again, grinning without his eyes. Simmons really wished he hadn’t picked it up, looking at it made his back hurt. What happened to the soldier he faced off against? Was that even a question he wanted answering? There wasn’t a part of his body left that wasn’t bruised or battered, blood from his nose still clung to his face. Simmons tentatively raised his hand to feel around, scraping the dried DNA under his nostrils. He dared to actually touch his nose, but it exploded under his finger tips. Accompanied by a crunching noise, it was swollen and no longer as straight as he was used to. At least he could still breathe out of it, though he was starting to think it was simply just because his body knew there was no other choice.

Squirming where he sat with the pain circulating from the bridge of his nose to hook under his eye, Simmons’ leg knocked against the chair leg. This captured Felix’s attention, he looked up from his toy. When they locked eyes again, Simmons shrunk. He had that flicker in his eyes. He tilted his head almost playfully, extending his hand that clutched on to the knife.

“You threw this?”

Simmons nodded. It’s all he could do. He trusted Felix, believed Felix, but there was a twist in his intestines.

“Good throw. I mean, I don’t think you were aiming for the door, but you stuck it. If you narrowed your aim down more...” Felix then started to mumble something to himself. Simmons watched him intently, his eyes darkened. He then snapped right back. “Where’d you learn it?”

Simmons shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, begged to get it through to Felix that really, he had no idea.

“Come on, you must’ve practiced it somewhere. Maybe Rat’s Nest? All those Saturdays off”

When did he tell Felix about Rat’s Nest? He certainly didn’t tell him about their Saturdays. He didn’t like talking about Rat’s Nest. It was all Grif, all the man he couldn’t touch, the face he couldn’t reach. Rat’s Nest was unbearable, more so than Blood Gulch, but at least he had the familiarity of nighttime laughs, midnight quests to stop midnight snacks. As his eyes widened too large, his toes started to curl up in whatever amount of under armour clung to his withering form. If only he could say something, anything. Tell Felix to leave that point alone, to not mistake his reaction for anything other than the utter shock of hearing that place again, that name once more. The memories were crawling up his legs to lurch at his stomach with every heavy breath heaved through his broken nose.

Grif was dead, and Rat’s Nest was dead to him. Rat’s Nest was named after someone Simmons would rather forget. Their team was incompetent, and their team was dead. Simmons was incompetent, and Grif was dead. He was shaking now. Nobody else, nothing else mattered. Dead. It was all dead to him, it was all going to be dead. Oh fuck, did Felix have to wrack this reaction out of him every single time they had a fucking conversation? It wasn’t Felix’s fault, he knew that, because he stopped trying to drag it out of him when their eyes met. His mind was reeling.

Over and over behind his face played the moments of Rat’s Nest he tried his damn near hardest to repress, to never think of again, that only emerged when Simmons no longer had full control over himself. Simmons didn’t want to think about dead people anymore. Everybody he loved was dead, and they were never coming back. They were never coming to get him, to rescue him and hold him close. Nobody was going to help Simmons recover, grow, and change for the better. None of them. Because they were dead. Every last person who loved Simmons was dead. He couldn’t wrack his head around anything else now, changing his train of thought became a tiresome effort out of nowhere.

There was a knock outside of the room which urged Simmons to try to de-fog his mind from his rave and Felix out of the slouch he fell into. It wiped his face clean of that half triumphant glint that Simmons couldn’t find himself trying to decode. He focused on Felix’s face just to stop himself from collapsing in on himself. His face was flickering again, materialising before him, but he couldn’t extend his hand from where he had left it, as much as he wanted to grasp on and not let go. Reality seemed to melt around him, he just needed him. Orange, the colour clung to his teeth, he couldn’t expel it through the tape.

Simmons’ attention drew to the door, where two soldiers stood expectantly. Instead of playing out how he expected, Felix simply sighed and stepped away from where he’d perched himself.

“Sorry to cut our conversation short, Richard, but I really shouldn’t be here,” Felix said with a small salute and a wink. Simmons didn’t actually want him to go, he was on the edge of crumbling into a million pieces and needed that reassurance. He needed Felix, even if he was just in the corner mentioning things he didn’t like, like Rat’s Nest, and now he was doing it to himself, which wasn’t very good but he couldn’t help it, Rat’s Nest was not going to leave, he couldn’t get it out of his fucking head, couldn’t get him out of his fucking head.

Simmons struggled to at least indicate to Felix that he didn’t want him to go. He’d gone against orders again just to talk to Simmons, just to be someone who wouldn’t hurt him. Felix hadn’t laid a hand on him. He blinked wildly, unable to make a sound, but Felix just crossed the room to leave it again. They’d barely been there. He fidgeted more, relaxing only slightly when Felix shot him another dead behind the eyes grin. In that moment, stood in the doorway, he was taller and larger than he’d ever been. There was a power to him that Simmons didn’t want to be used against him, he was already folding into his own head with just simple words. Felix didn’t mean to. Didn’t mean to, he kept telling himself, he didn’t mean to do any of this. He could trust him.

Felix left with the soldiers Simmons thought were for him. He hung his head with nothing to focus on, now noticing how his legs were jittering. His eye was no longer focusing, he could see double of his limbs. The second he was left alone again, his thoughts racked right back to Rat’s Nest, scratching and clawing at the insides of his brain. It’s not like the place itself could do this to him, it was mangy and often smelt of rotten fruit. All it was, was entirely him. Entirely the man who Simmons longed to say one final goodbye to, the man who would convince him out of briefings on the pretence of being a superior officer, the man who never seemed to sleep at during their strangely long nights but found every inconvenient place to nap.

And their Saturdays. It was already a poorly run military base if it appointed Grif as a superior officer, and he shouldn’t keep thinking about Grif and superiority and that night he dreams about and- he was crying. Simmons was crying into his lap, his eye sore as the last inkling of hydration left in his system was wept out because of someone who hated him. He guessed that was the last thing that cracked him, thinking of the time that a certain ex-sergeant appointed his days off to match his, laughing about nothing in an abandoned corner of the east weapons bay as the nearest light flickered with a new bulb. They still used bulbs.

It never occurred to him that military bases don’t have days off, that a commanding officer couldn’t just choose when he got this supposed day off. Now, alone, alive without him, he was glad that he broke the rules. Even if it was for Grif, who probably did it only to annoy Simmons half to death. His legs kicked the legs of the chair involuntarily, shaking and twitching alongside the rest of his body wracked with grief, of all things. He’d had good cries about Grif, and the rest of the colours - orange. He’d cried about orange, not Grif, but why would - why would he cry over a colour? He’d cried about them both. They were linked, somehow. Grif, orange, red, pink, Grif, blue, cobalt blue. Like the screen. Simmons looked up, but it had turned off at some point. Instead, in the black of standby, he could see himself.

Of course, because he didn’t want to. His hair was more ratted than he imagined it would be, stuck up in different directions, styled by the very apparent lack of hygiene. He saw his face, the hollowness in his eye shadowing it from himself. The red light of his other was dull in the reflection, though he wouldn’t be surprised if it dimmed entirely. His head had been battered around enough for it to short, just like the rest of his tarnished body. Simmons didn’t recognise himself anymore, almost tempted to cry out to his stranger for help. What had he become? He’d gone a long way from the man at Rat’s Nest, with a trendy haircut and a clean shaven face.

After a while of staring at himself, a bright light emitted from the monitor. Simmons almost fell out of his chair. Feverishly scanning the white abyss for something, anything, the loud opening jingle to some show almost sent him flying again. On the screen, blurred through his lens, read ‘EMERGENCY BROADCAST’ in impact font. A blue and black sparrow flew across the screen, taking the text away with it, and settled in the top left corner. This was not what he expected, Simmons had to admit, but any contact from the outside... just to quench his restless quivers.

The broadcaster sat behind her desk, her hands folded on top of one another. Everything was painfully white, painfully blank. This poor woman looked so out of place, doused in blue, staring ahead for a good minute too long. Simmons waited, which is all he seemed to do these days. She took a deep breath and began: “Hello, my name is Raquel Hancock, and this is an emergency broadcast to every screen east of the 2419 Star Cluster. About a month ago, a ship containing the Reds and Blues of Project Freelancer went missing.”

Simmons was not supposed to see this, they’d skin him alive if they found out. Because this was an actual, proper news broadcast.

“If you see any of them, dead or alive, please report to us. These are dangerous war criminals who took down an entire branch of the UNSC by themselves, for themselves.“

No, no. That’s not right, they weren’t by themselves, they had... they had... Simmons couldn’t think of their names, eyes wide and pinned to the broadcast. They did that? They did, he could remember it. Vaguely. It wasn’t as clear as Rat’s Nest. Stop it. Contact details flashed on screen, but Simmons couldn’t make them out properly.

“We only have access to a few current photos of them. So, some will be the ones provided in their original files, or those of them in armour. Please be on lookout, thank you.”

The programme went blank, then an image he didn’t remember being a part of flashed on screen. Simmons fell forward off of his chair, he knew his legs wouldn’t work properly in the slightest. He crawled forward to look at them, at him. He’d just gotten close enough to trace them when they disappeared, replaced by shots of them individually in their armour. They flashed the Blues first, he didn’t recognise one of them. Cyan, cyan, cobalt blue, grey... they didn’t have a grey...? Simmons didn’t care, though, because that meant the colours he was sure of were coming up, flashing on screen for him to latch on to.

They came, and went. Red, pink, maroon, orange. Then, it was the photos of them. First, a terribly young man with a smirk that mirrored Felix’s, with a squarer jaw and brighter eyes, he knew that name. Then, a woman with chin length blonde hair, though red dye was still trying to persist, it was choppy as if she cut it herself one night. After her, a tired but playful smile, a missing tooth, and a plaster over his nose, he knew his name too. Next, something of a kid with a naturally crooked nose, a telltale birthmark just under his eye. Blues over. Now it was the Reds again, and Simmons wasn’t prepared to see him. Orange, Grif, he’d seen one and was fine. He didn’t know if he could see the other. They were the same person. Were they?

Red, one eye alive and inquisitive, one scarred over. He was missing it, Simmons could recall a distant story of how and when. It screamed recent, but who was he to know? He should remember his name, it must be important. Pink, buck teeth and a large burn scar down one side of his face. He wore hearing aids, though Simmons couldn’t even see them. He just knew that. Pink, hands playing with his hair. Pink, laughing at his jokes and giggling at his frustrations. Maroon, he looked away. Nobody would want to see themselves at their best, their healthiest, in the same state as him.

He didn’t want to miss Grif. His eyes flickered back to himself, when he had just joined the army. His hair used to be a brighter red rather than the tinted brown it was now. No cyborg parts, no mechanical indications of what he’d been through. Just Simmons, how he was and how he honestly would’ve preferred to stay. Looking at the best version of who he was, the man who wanted to rule the world and then some, the man who could’ve had it all had he just paid more attention in university, he could be sick. He needed it to move on, to have a face he could say goodbye to.

The door opened again. No. No! Simmons’ hand fell on the screen, willing it to hurry up before the inevitable happened. He banged on the monitor, crying still, weeping now, because he needed to see him. Whether or not they were same guards that called Felix to duty, Simmons didn’t care. All he cared about was seeing him again, and not just in the corner of his mind as the days dragged on and on. Come on, please, no, he needed this! The tape muffled his attempts at cursing them out. They were dragging him away, the screen still brandishing his own face, and not the one he so desperately wanted.

All of his joints ached, but he thrashed. Not to fight them, but he would if he had to. He would go against a million of them again and again if it meant a simple glance at him. Simmons was prepared to try and throw a knife again, which he didn’t practice at Rat’s Nest during his Saturdays he was unaccounted for, and he fought for freedom even more. He needed to see the end of that broadcast, maybe she confirmed them as alive, maybe he could see something else but old photos, and he needed to see him. The fight he’d lost came back for him. For them.

Simmons was thrown back into the room with the cot, sprawled on the floor, and the door behind him locked. What he wanted to do was run towards the door and bang on it insanely. What actually happened was Simmons tripping over his own loose fake foot, and landing back on the floor once more. He didn’t even know how he ended back in here so quick, it was as though one moment he was in the room about to see him, and the next he was tripping over himself to cause a scene. This wasn’t a smart idea. This wasn’t Simmons.

He slammed his fist into the floor, sending pain from wounds that had thankfully started to heal all the way up to his neck. He paid no mind to it, curling his fingers into a fist. He wanted to cry some more, but he couldn’t. His eyes stung, his arm even more so. Giving up, Simmons pushed himself to a sitting position, and pushed himself back with the help of his aching feet and sliced hand.

He sat propped up against a wall, brought his knees to his chest, just like his first time in that awful closet, and grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling and ragging on it. Rat’s Nest, orange, Grif, his team, all of them. He couldn’t breathe through the tape, didn’t know if he wanted to, he was driving himself mad. Hunched over his own pathetic self, he wanted to bang against the walls and shout and curse and threaten. He wanted to get back at the people who tore him away, but he shouldn’t, and he couldn’t, and it was sending him closer and closer to an edge, he just wanted to see proof he actually existed and wasn’t just a face he’d thought of, he wanted to scratch and claw at his confines. Simmons wanted to do every little thing that could get him killed, all to see the face of the man he’d started to convince himself he loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to updated in December, but it’s amazing what my family are capable of during the holidays lol. >.< Fun fact, I got into a creative writing course at two unis! This fic has given me a lot of confidence in my writing, and thank you to all of you who have read and enjoyed it this year, and continue to stick with it!! \o/ I hope you have a wonderful new year!!


	17. Sixty Directions For One Destination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Nothing feels like dying like the drying of my skin and lawn, why do we just sit here while they watch us wither til we’re gone?”  
> -Tune-Yards, Water Fountain

“That’s not how you do it.”

“Whatever, it works.”

“It might work, but-“

”Listen, I don’t care if you have some sort of perfectionism fetish.”

“Nobody has a perfectionism fetish. I don’t think that’s a thing.”

Grif was going to say something, but he shut his mouth before Wash noticed that, deciding instead to ask about what fetishes Wash actually knew. That brought on the heavy silence he preferred with Wash, as even with his face obscured, Grif could see just how flustered he had become at the question. He didn’t care, his fingers fiddled with the small part of the radio they managed to extract without it damaging the whole device. It was very meticulous work, but repairing every part of the tower was always on top of their agenda.

His fingers tried to move around what looked like a moving part for what must’ve been the hundredth time. After this repeated failure, he simply sighed, looking away and around the space where he sat. It was dark but dry, the ground a little muddy from the great obelisk blocking it from the sun, but Grif didn’t mind getting his knees a bit dirty. It’s not like he risked sitting on his ass and ruining his new jacket, which would’ve been his main concern. At least he was getting a workout on his legs.

Not as much of a workout that Wash subjected his teammates to, but then again... Grif acted primarily as a wide barrier between the Blues and their leader, as neither of them particularly wanted to do anything from their regime. Understandable, it was gruelling exercise and painfully focused on teamwork, if he eavesdropped correctly. It was a talent, blocking out his own orders to memorise other people’s. Maybe that’s how they should be delivered to him in future.

Grif looked over to see what they were up to now, making sure to still position himself as a wall. Caboose had finally decided he was too bored to ignore Wash’s suggestions, doing effortless pushups with his hair down. He couldn’t see any aspect of his face from where he was positioned, but he assumed his smile was faltered, his brows set in concentration. He was honestly surprised at how long it took Caboose to start working out, out of everyone (aside from Wash of course), he was probably the most athletic here. And standing around with only Tucker to entertain him was probably Caboose’s personal hell.

Tucker was on his back, acting as an inconvenient weight, not hindering progress in the slightest. He was lean, not stick thin, he could easily swing a sword not pick up a fifty megaton bomb. Height wise, he was also much smaller than Caboose, who was a Goliath of a man. Extra small perched on him as he actually listened to commands, Tucker was off in space, his head was tilted in a dead giveaway. Grif wanted to catch his eye to offer a smile, or to silently complain about their commanding officer.

“Do you know where Sarge went off to?” Wash asked absentmindedly. Grif turned to face him, his face buried deep under a thick cement of focus.

“Why’d you expect me to know?”

“Just because you’re Red and all.”

“I don’t care what Sarge is doing.”

“I do. Could you please go find him? It’s not that I’m all that worried, but... he’s been acting weird- weirder than his usual weird.”

“Yeah, wonder why that is,” Grif said under his breath before pushing himself to his knees. He took this opportunity to get away before he suggested the two of them have a heart to heart again. Wash gratefully took the part of the radio off of Grif, deciding it adequate now despite it not having changed much since Grif’s suspicious DIY work. He stuffed his hands in Simmons’ jacket’s pockets, rolled his shoulders to hear the popping of his joints, and set off towards the base first.

Just before entering, Wash must have noticed Tucker not doing anything, as he ventured into their crack in the wall to the familiar tune of a Blue lecture. He didn’t pay much attention to it, banking on the fact that in the near future, he’ll hear the whole thing from Tucker’s point of view, and take great pleasure in siding with him as he over-exaggerates what they both know to be Wash’s genuine concerns for his health.

Grif looked around the corner to the Blue’s sleeping quarters, even if that was a dumb idea. Their collection of markers were scattered around what Grif knew to be Caboose’s mat. He smiled, not questioning anything, because it seemed only logical. The whole section seemed more out of place and messier than when he was in here the other day with Tucker. Who was Grif to critique on the cleanliness of a space? His hands balled around the fabric on the insides of the pockets.

He continued to the upper level, past the three remaining sandbags, and into his own section. Sarge wasn’t there, but there was a clear outline of some shape under his rain cover. Grif opted to ignore it, even if he was exceedingly curious. This was Sarge, anything could be under there, anything but himself. Sarge didn’t sleep during the day, couldn’t, especially not nowadays. Last night, though sporadic, Grif managed to sleep throughout the majority of the night. Every time he woke up, Sarge didn’t look like he slept a single bit.

Grif checked around to see if there was any sign of where he could actually be, because now he was starting to understand Wash’s concern. His shotgun was nowhere to be found, his container of water from the previous evening still sat by where his head usually rested.

He walked over and kicked it, filling the room with the dull sound of metal on rock. Unpacking his hands from the jacket, he gave into the bug in the back of his throat and lifted the cover, met with three sandbags. Unfortunately, Grif knew his sergeant well enough by now, and flipped the bags off of the mat.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Grif said to himself, grabbing the folded sheet of instructions he’d seen too often. On quiet days where his companion started to whir strangely, they’d grab the robot manual and figure it out in between empty insults. He’d seen Sarge consult it a million times to see if he could add various cosmetic upgrades to his creations. Grif sighed, “don’t be building another one.”

He stuffed the instructions into his pocket, swirled around, and set about his way to exit the base. How fucking dumb does he have to be? To build another one? Of course Grif wanted more of Red Team, but he had reservations. It was kind of a very stupid idea to build one just to fill the void of a decrease in numbers, when their actual robot was still around. He was just at Valhalla. Grif could kick something, but Grif had to remind himself that he didn’t care what Sarge was doing.

On the homestretch out of the base now, he tried to work his way through accepting the new robot that Sarge was definetly building. It was going to be a sorry replacement for those back at their old base. There was no way he’d hide the instructions away if he wasn’t, because he’d not want the Blues to find it. How did he even find the parts? The kit? The equipment? All Grif was aware they had was that darn screwdriver, and the blade of a drill.

It was honestly tiring, working under Sarge. Every new, annoying scheme. His feet carried himself out of the base, and he headed towards where he knew his sergeant would be: the sizeable hole across the canyon that he wanted to make Red Base. There was a strange grasp on his abdomen, gnawing away at his patience. He was tempted to jog. He, of course, didn’t do that, because not even the weird urgency he’d created in his own imagination would warrant that torture.

Making his way towards the hole, Grif stopped abruptly. Eyes electrocuted his skin, but as he looked around, the Blues were busy arguing like they always did. Tilting his head up, he saw them, standing on the cliff above their hole. From their high ground, there was no discernible features that he could make out. Holy fuck, that was another being. Human, inhuman, whatever- they were there. Right there. Unmoving, Grif continued to stare them down.

Locked in their stances, Grif’s unnerving reaction to the new robot was overtaken by this figure. Of course, he wanted to know who, but how? Where? Why? Who? His stomach twisted into panic, building on the subdued reaction to the replacement robot. He stayed rooted to his spot on the dirt, squinting at the observer he shouldn’t have realistically noticed.

There was other life. And they knew of their existence. They could be their salvation, they could be-

“Grif!” A loud voice rang out from the direction he was headed. “What are you doing?!”

“I think someone’s watching us,” he said, pointing up towards the cliff edge. Sarge stood right next to him and huffed. As he said that, it was as if the figure dematerialised before his very eyes, disappearing without a trace. He was inclined to think it was Carolina, but if he said that, then Sarge wouldn’t give him the time or day.

“I don’t see anything! Are you trying to get out of work?”

“Probably,” Grif said as he watched on incase they returned, “eh, I must’ve been seeing things.”

His weird feelings about Sarge’s presumed project, and the person he seriously started considering as a figment of his imagination warped away when he looked at Sarge, tired and small next to him. The strange steadiness his sergeant commanded, even though he was an eccentric old geezer when describing him nicely, was welcomed. That was probably the most Grif had ever thought of Sarge in a positive light. It made him want to laugh at his creation inevitably failing in some manner rather than hold a grudge against a hunk of metal for helping them do work Grif didn’t want to do in the first place.

Sure, it was weird that it would replace Lopez, Simmons, Donut, and Doc on good days, but where did he even get the idea that it was a replacement? Sarge hadn’t said anything. For all that mattered, it was just another addition, a new soldier. A rookie, even, that would be prime to dump all of Grif’s more boring responsibilities (which was all of them, when he thought about it) on to.

“You’re going mad, private,” Sarge said, “insane! Cuckoo! Bananas! Bonkers! Cr-“

“Yes, I get it, thank you, sir,” Grif said with a roll of his eyes, “but not as mad as you. Look what I found.”

He extracted the instructions, Sarge’s eye scanned it, and he nodded as if Grif had just told him the secret password to an underground organisation. Then again, what was Red Team if not just that? Grif nodded back, now ironed out back to what he hoped was a plain neutral about their new robot, and let Sarge lead the way to the almost-Red Base.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO this is a very nothing chapter, but it sets up the next lil arc so that’s okay! I’m happy w it 0: and that’s what matters. I was supposedly to get this up last week but, being a sixth form student, I have had yet more exams lol. (‘: Next update should be soonish, I have a gift exchange prompt to write too so look forward to that! (Hint: more grimmons, as it is my speciality ;P)


	18. Robot Hand That Feeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And I know that you think that I don't care about all the friends I left behind, the ones who stay up late at night screaming out their shattered minds.”  
> -McCafferty, Beachboy

“Geez, how far in are we going, Sarge?”

“Far enough! Keep your voice down, too, I don’t want any Blues following us in here.”

“They’re fighting again, I don’t think they’ll care.”

“They would do if they knew what we were doing!”

“Doubt it.”

Grif mumbled it under his breath, but Sarge had excellent hearing when he wanted to. He glanced backwards towards him with his eye narrowed, they weren’t all that far apart anyway. This close, he could see the faded scars seal close the eye he’d lost before any Red had even met him. Though, as they were so close, if Sarge were to stop for whatever reason then Grif would topple over him and push both of them to the ground. Not good, so they just kept moving, though he could tell with the interspersed dirty looks that Sarge really wanted to plant his feet and groan at him.

His eyes scanned the cave that bent around them. There was barely enough room for him, he was too broad, and even Sarge looked like he had to walk in a certain way to avoid scraping his already scratched arms against the rocky walls. It had the usual damp cave smell he became used to from spending every night in their base. As the back of his hand brushed against the side, it tickled like the rocks that would send shivers up his spine towards the shore of a bed of sea if he were to step on them. He jerked his hand away from the slimy cavern walls.

Even though wherever Sarge had set up shop must not be too far from the entrance, the entire journey was dragged out by the unwanted company. Grif honestly would’ve preferred to sit slouched with Wash still, because at least there he knew he wasn’t apart of some secret scheme against the only other three people either of them had contact with anymore. He sighed. Schemes were overly complicated, but they were the Red Team’s brand by now. If literally anybody else was here, then he guessed it would be easier for them, and the robot is going to be here instead. He sighed again, because fuck, did he not want to be involved.

After what was too long, too gruelling, the two of them reached the large expanse of the rest of the cave. If they’d had a tank, maybe they’d be able to hollow out a larger hole, cover it with the rain sheets, and have an easy access Red base. That was what Sarge had said to him a million and a half times in the past, what, three weeks? Month? His tongue curled in his mouth, it wasn’t a good thing to think about. So, he dropped it, and looked around the cavern.

Sarge hadn’t really done much with the place, though he stacked a few crates to make a standing desk (one of very few things that Grif was terrified of), and from the entrance to the wider expanse, he could see miscellaneous paper documents had held their home there. Once Sarge stepped in further, he made a beeline to snoop on the writings of a madman, tracing the crude capital letters which were written in the red marker that he was supposed to steal off of the Blues. Sarge must’ve beaten him to it.

The plans were covered in robotics jargon that Grif could never understand even if he studied it, he strongly believed that Sarge just wrote in his own words for parts he didn’t know the names of. It was Simmons who noticed it, many years ago, when he picked up an annotated diagram from the kit used to build Lopez. He had more of an inkling of that kind of stuff, and Grif didn’t want to argue as the main reason they were rummaging through the box was to find something to stop the beeping. It had interrupted their nightly talk so not only was he ready for bed, he was pissed that he couldn’t speak to Simmons longer. What a bittersweet thought now.

He shivered through no fault of the lukewarm air. He didn’t even know he retained that otherwise mundane night as a particular memory, but the more he thought about the rest of the night, the more it appeared seared to the back of his mind. Once they’d found out where the beeping was coming from, and Grif had gotten over the embarrassment of having his hands literally inside of Simmons to rip it out, they were so close that Grif really should’ve jerked away. But, like he said, he was tired, so they sat there with Simmons’ shirt cast aside and Grif tenderly- no, not tenderly. That was too sweet. He remembered he liked the word fond for describing how he felt about Simmons.

The rest of the night had wiled on as Grif fondly screwed the panel back into place, and Simmons was nodding off because it must’ve been exhausting; Grif couldn’t even begin to comprehend how having something ripped from inside of you must feel. At least it was only his arm, he dreaded to think about the large panel on his chest. He had Simmons memorised. Ugh, that hurt to think about, even if he had come to better terms with it. So he stopped, he just put a pin in it, he could return and work out those feelings later in the middle of a sleepless night. He hoped they wouldn’t twist into nightmares. He hoped that when he did dream of Simmons, they would be happy.

His hands found the pockets of the maroon jacket as he turned away after hearing an echoing thunk that could only be Sarge ready to show off his creation. Grif tilted his head to his side as he tried to find either of them, but there was a sheet of plastic hanging off the cavern wall, so he could only assume that was where the robot was being kept. Trust Sarge to have a secret hiding spot within a secret hiding spot. He really was just like that, huh? Grif pondered about Sarge’s eccentricities for a while until he came back out from behind the sheet of plastic. He must not have shown the right emotions on his face, because Sarge glowered at him. Either that, or Sarge just remembered who he was with. Both were probably true.

“Ahem, Private Dexter Grif, may I present to you: Lopez Dos Point Oh!” Sarge yanked the sheet of plastic off the wall, and cast it aside. The robot followed Sarge out, and stood plain and still. He looked just like Lopez 1.0, same model and everything. He wondered if there were literally any other colours for robots in the world other than brown. 2.0 hadn’t said anything, and Grif remembered that the original Lopez didn’t even come with a voice chip. Maybe this one didn’t, and he didn’t have to deal with another robotic contraption of Sarge’s never shutting up.

“What do you want me to say?” Grif asked. The neutrality he had settled on threatened to boil into something else, but he swallowed that down right away. Staring at this new robot, it didn’t feel much different as looking at Lopez, which he hadn’t many feelings towards in the first place. It was odd, sure, though not enough to spark a chain reaction of any sorts. Sighing out his confused thoughts, with a light stomach, he approached 2.0. He just hoped, for his own sake that this one didn’t speak-

“Hola, soy Lopez El-“

“Argh!” Grif slapped both palms to his face. He dragged them down past his cheeks and off of his chin, then gestured wildly at 2.0. “Why’s he speaking Spanish?! You had the opportunity to fix that!”

“Hmph.” Sarge placed a finger on his eyebrow as if this was the most philosophical question he had ever heard. “I don’t know! Never occurred to me!”

“How? How did that not occur to you?“

“Don’t get sassy with me, private, you’re already on watch for clinical loopiness! Don’t make me have to fire a warning shot!” Sarge pointed to his shotgun, propped up on the wall of the cavern, to his left. Grif wasn’t fazed by the comment, of course, as this was the usual.

“Oh please, you’d shoot at me without needing an excuse.”

“Is that an open invitation?”

“Who would invite you to shoot at them?!”

“The Blues! By breathing!”

If the robot could sigh, Grif knew it would’ve done. He certainly did, with his whole body, a groan leaving his lips. Not only had Sarge named the stupid thing after Lopez, he’d gone and made the same shitty mistake of making him only speak Spanish. Both members of Red Team stared each other down at that moment, while the newcomer that Grif didn’t want to let in stood by and observed. With the frustration rushing though his veins, it was even harder now to keep reminding himself that he was on neutral terms with everything. And he meant everything. He could feel the accusations on his lips.

Sarge, at some point, had leant over to grab his gun, and had pointed it at Grif without so much as cocking it. Their frustrations were fighting against one another, as if Sarge was hoping that Grif would immediately fall head over heels for their newest member. But they both knew the other had underlying issues with the whole thing, just by the way neither attempted to continue their argument, which would’ve been an epic among the other ones, just by the way they stood unmoving in their stances. It bounced off of the walls, and landed in Grif’s ears, where it rang so fucking loud.

They were both thinking of the same person, the same people, the same team. Grif lowered his eyes from his sergeant and caught sight of his jacket, and reminded himself of the way he felt the night he got it. Okay. He was alright, and Simmons was gone, and Sarge knew that. If he was trying to change it, deny it and swap him, then wouldn’t he have continued the spat? Wouldn’t Sarge do what Sarge did best, and wear Grif down until he agreed out of resignation, because he knew there would be no way on God’s green earth that Grif would agree to it?

Grif knew that Sarge must’ve sensed his hesitation, could feel the thoughts that he tried to pass off as nothing. Admiring the colour on his arms, flinching at how his paler fingers looked when he curled them against the cuff of the sleeve, Grif steadied himself. It was alright. He was okay, with his feet planted against the ground, connected to the planet he didn’t know the name of, he regained some sort of control over the conflict between not caring what Sarge did and caring way, way too much. He looked up again.

His face had actually softened, though he hadn’t lowered the gun. That would’ve been cause for concern much more than the subtle gentleness in his expression. Now, Grif knew he was thinking of the others, the ones at Valhalla, the team he knew was alive and well. People who he couldn’t replace, as Sarge always had a plan to reunite the team if split, people who were alive and out there for him to retrieve. People who weren’t dead, gone like the one person he thought it was all about.

For the first time, properly, Grif thought about all of them. And he knew, as he sifted through the many memories, that Sarge hadn’t stopped thinking about any of them. As shitty of a leader as he was, Sarge was still in charge, and still had an army to command. Valhalla had his army, the remainders that clung to life, to their conscious. Donut didn’t sting as much as Simmons did, but the thoughts of him was still salt in an open wound. It was honestly painful to admit he hadn’t given them much thought outside of passing moments, fleeting ideas that left before he realised they were there. He probably should’ve at least tried.

The pressure in the room was caving in on them like the entrance, Grif hated it. He hated Sarge, too, but he couldn’t help the odd tension that surrounded them. Now, they’d seemed to level their wavelengths with one another, and neither were happy. It was as if Wash’s wishes had come true, and they were about to have one hell of a moment. A conversation about the absence of so many vital parts of their team’s make up, maybe. So he cringed as he said it, the one thing he never thought he’d sincerely ever say: “I’m sorry, Sarge.”

Then, it was awkward. Very, very awkward. Stood shuffling on their feet as either tried to think of something to say, as the dawning realisation of shit, I have to actually say something came tumbling upon them. Both opened and closed their mouths a dozen times, because both didn’t want this moment to actually unfold. They didn’t want to talk out their weird feelings about their weird team, the closest Grif wanted to do to that was insult his robot a bit more. Their stalemate became more and more unbearable by the minute.

The longer they stayed frozen, the more Grif regretted his half-assed attempt at an apology, a conversation. Lines worsened by age in Sarge’s face were strengthened by the prospect of having a heart to heart with Grif of all people. He wondered if it was Simmons or Donut in his place if he’d managed to coax something out of him, but what would either of them have to say about a man they could only tolerate. Plus, if they were in his place, he wouldn’t want them talking about him anyway. 2.0 hadn’t even attempted the witty remarks Grif always assumed Lopez made, which was a fat shame, any interjection would be useful right now.

After a minute of wishing that, the interruption was fast and unnervingly loud. The Reds spotted the shade of blue by the entrance out of the corner of their eye, Grif knew it was Tucker by the way he screamed when Sarge, in one quick moment, cocked and shot his shotgun at the wall by where he stood.

“What the fuck, Sarge?!” Both Tucker and Grif screamed, the energy surrounding the room now smoke trying to find the quickest exit. Sarge shot again.

“Dirty Blue! Spying on us! You led him here, you traitor!” Sarge pointed at Grif, who never wanted to strangle an old man more in his entire life.

“How?!” Grif yelled, but didn’t get an answer. Tucker had finally reached the common sense to set off into a sprint, small enough that the weirdly narrow tunnel to the cavern wouldn’t impose his movements. Sarge headed off after him, used to the shape of it now, but he must know he couldn’t catch up to Tucker.

“Shit. We better follow them, you know.”

“¿Ustedes siempre son así? No quiero que esta sea mi vida,” 2.0 said, or asked, or remarked... whatever. Grif shrugged.

“Oh shut up, you. Come on, they’re gonna drive Wash mad and I don’t wanna miss that.”

Grif led the robot out of his previous home, and promised himself to never go back. It was a sorry place full of bad feelings, making him remember people and places that bit at him in weird ways. It almost made him disclose things to Sarge that he hadn’t properly figured out. Grif didn’t like that he cared about other people, had only just began to come to terms with the fact he cared about Simmons. The cavern twisted his perception of them all, and the second he left, he was washed with relief to rid himself of it. With a last check of the cliffside to see if anyone had returned (they hadn’t), Grif and Lopez 2.0 went right after Sarge to where he was likely already in the middle of another argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg uploaded this w/ out a note >.< but Hai!!! Hello thank u for reading. Updates r gonna be a bit slow sorry ),: I have a lot of uni open days ;-; but I do hope ch19/20 will be up soon!! If possible, I’d like to finish them today and get them up tomorrow or smth. 0:


	19. Calm After The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Giddy with delight, seeing what's to come, the image of the dead, dead ends in my mind.”  
> -MGMT, Little Dark Age

“He tried to shoot me!”

“No, no, I shot at you!”

“You could’ve killed me, Sarge, I could be dead right now!”

“You’re Blue! I don’t care!”

“Sarge,” Wash said in a voice too strained to mediate, “why did you try to shoot him?”

“Because he was peeping in on my private business!”

“I didn’t ‘peep’!” Tucker spluttered out.

“Yes you did! You walked in on mine and Grif’s private one on one!”

“Don’t say it like that, Sarge,” Grif said as he finally walked over close enough to join the conversation, 2.0 close behind him. They both kicked up dirt as they practically stomped out after the other two. All of them, now, were crowded around the bottom of the comm tower as Wash leant over up top, clearly in the middle of getting somewhere before the idiot brigade showed up. Tucker was gesturing wildly at Sarge, who had his arms folded and his face adamant.

He hadn’t a clue what Wash was doing without anyone up there with him. The comm tower always seemed to need two people working on it at all times, and Wash usually dragged Grif along with him. Was Caboose not up there? Grif peered around Tucker to try and find where he was, but he really couldn’t be that far away, so when he missed the telltale royal blue, he just shrugged and absorbed the argument once more. Everyone had decided to ignore Grif’s comment and stuck to figuring out if Sarge almost killing a squad member was justified or not. Or, whatever they were actually arguing about, because the snippets he actually tuned into were rapidly different from one another.

He started to sway on his feet, ignoring most of the commotion that luckily kept Sarge occupied from that disaster of a conversation in the cave. His eyes kept scanning the canyon for movement, just so he knew that Caboose was accounted for. Though it wouldn’t surprise him one bit if he also had some mechanical creation cooped up in a hole that he disappeared off to. Caboose and Sarge were alike in many different ways, but Grif preferred Caboose because he’d never tried to actively kill him. And, he guessed, he was just a genuinely nice guy. Sarge was not.

Looking up at Wash again, it took him all he could not to smirk with childish glee. As Tucker and Sarge kept battling their cases, he’d gone off back to work. More important things to do, Grif guessed, than to pay any more attention to the morons twittering around like a pair of off coloured canaries. Neither of them had actually noticed his new level of indifference, both on their last bit of wire from everything else that had been plaguing the two of them. Grif shot a look at 2.0, not knowing if he expected one back, but nodding when he at least turned his head so it felt at least a little worthwhile.

Along the line of Grif checking between Wash and 2.0, the bumble beside him had trailed off. He could hear Sarge’s heavy footfall move across the ground and up the ladder to the tower as well, and silently prayed for Wash. Tucker, on the other hand, slid over to Grif and sighed loudly to signal ‘hey I need to complain about Sarge and/or Wash can we leave’, which couldn’t really be turned down. With an overly dramatic stretch and a yawn, Grif tilted his head to make contact with Sarge.

“Well, I’m gonna go take a nap,” he said, “nothing for me to do here anymore.”

“Not quite, Private, you have to give Dos Point Oh his orientation!” Sarge yelled down from the tower.

“With all due respect, Sarge, that’s dumb as fuck and I’m not doing it.”

“Yes you are! Hop on it, Grif!”

With an apologetic smile at Tucker, Grif turned to 2.0 only to see he had wandered off under the tower. He blinked twice and looked up at Sarge again.

“He looks pretty orientated.”

“Don’t back talk me, Private, I will come down there!”

“You just went up!”

“I said no back talk! Don’t make me fire a warning shot!”

“Stop trying to kill us!” Tucker yelled. “It does nothing!”

“Grif’s survived thousands!” Sarge yelled back. “Haven’t you, Grif?”

“Barely! You still want me dead!” Grif yelled mainly just to jump on the opportunity to scream at Sarge. “When have you wanted me alive!?”

And then the argument from earlier picked up, with the distinct difference being that Grif actually contributed a hell of a lot more. It was nice to be back to hating Sarge, with the added bonus of Tucker being upset with him too. This was how the Reds worked best. At each other’s throats and ready to throw hands at any given moment. And now he was actually invested in the screaming, he was happy to know that it was honestly incoherent yammering and insults that hit a bit too hard from anyone but trusted sources. Both sides raised pretty empty points.

Their commotion attracted Caboose, popping out from wherever he had disappeared to in the short period of time between Grif leaving to go into the cave earlier that day and coming right back out. He happily skipped over to where the noise had once again fallen heavily on the entire hole in the ground, and opened his mouth to say something. If he did, it was drowned out by Sarge saying a word Grif didn’t even know if he had any right to say. Thankfully, as Grif trailed off, Tucker gladly picked up the slack and went about shooting an even more scathing remark at him.

Caboose sidled up next to Grif, his hair out of his face, leaving every imperfection to shine in the sun’s light. A scar here, a small scratch there. Worst of all, though, was the damaged right eye- paled by external misuse of what he sussed out to be lighter fluid. He knew it had something to do with Tucker’s and Church’s fuckery, as did most things that went wrong, but none of the Blues ever actively chose to disclose the full story. He could see his reflection in it as Caboose looked down with his naturally goofy grin, which was unsettling to say the least.

They leant against each other almost naturally, no words said between the two of them, their eyes flickering between Sarge and Tucker, and occasionally Wash who kept snapping around on his heel to mime strangling Sarge. Whatever bullshit Sarge was spewing must’ve been pushing him over the line. He could feel the band of patience snap when Sarge leant over the comm tower’s railings and jabbed an accusatory index at Tucker. Caboose shifted uncomfortably when Wash finally broke down and joined in.

“Sarge! Tucker! Would you just shut up?!”

“No! He’s mad, Wash! How are we gonna survive if half of us are fearing for our lives!?” Tucker was the only one there with a good point. Wash had a good idea in trying to silence them, sure, but it still left Grif with a feint bitter taste to make amends with Wash. As Sarge went on to explain that it wasn’t half, but all of them who he didn’t fear administrating warning shots to, 2.0 walked out from under the tower spinning the screwdriver around in his hand.

He joined Caboose and Grif stood a bit off from the main explosion of stupidity, his first hour of his life had been taken over by the Reds and Blues being absolutely incompetent. He felt almost bad for him, until Grif remembered that he was just a robot and didn’t know anything better than it. Sarge was his creator, after all, he was probably programmed with at least some level of tolerance for their shenanigans. Grif pulled himself off from leaning on Caboose’s arm and rolled his back. The crack caused his blue friend to cringe.

“No! That makes no sense!” Wash yelled about something Grif would assume Sarge had said. “Would you just let me work! Agh!”

Wash’s fist was raised and brought down on the communication part of the comm tower. All of them went dead silent, even Sarge for once. They turned their attention to Wash, whose face was a hybrid between utter shock and soul wrenching regret. 2.0 was not happy with this, as he was the first to break the silence with Spanish rambling, but nobody paid any attention to what he had to say. Any and all work they’d done on that fucking tower, had it just been undone? It wouldn’t surprise Grif, Wash was too strong for his own good. The entire group had grown sick to their stomach, he could feel it in the back of his throat.

Slowly, Wash tried to fiddle with some knobs on the device with Sarge instantly going to hover over his shoulder. Any help he could deliver would not be useful, Grif knew that after years of being forced to listen to him. Their technobabble encouraged Caboose to move from where he was planted once more, and he made his way to join the commanding officers up top. With his weird connection to machines, Grif didn’t doubt one minute that he was more help to Wash than Sarge would ever be.

There was a little something left over from the cave that hated him for insulting Sarge’s engineering abilities, but there was a larger something left over from their constant fuckups with the Warthog back at the Gulch. So he shrugged it off, and decided to go back to base with Tucker and finally execute their plan of leaving the situation and complaining for hours about Sarge and now definetly Wash. He was already ahead of Grif, walking towards him from the tower (Grif hadn’t even noticed he’d neared it, he guessed to get a better position to argue). Grif met him half way, rolled his eyes with him, and turned to leave.

They managed about what, five steps, before the unmistakable slide whistle of joining the radio stopped them dead in their tracks.

Instantly, the entire canyon erupted in shouts and cheers. Tucker was whooping, and grabbed ahold of Grif’s wrist to pull him to the tower. The bad energy from the fight had left every single participant. Grif didn’t know how to react, torn between laughing and crying. They’d made contact! They did it! Wash was spluttering about not knowing how he did it, and Sarge was taking the glory for himself. Grif didn’t even have it in him to make a snide remark at him, they were about to be rescued!

Tucker led the both of them up the tower, to crowd round the microphone and speaker with the others. Their excited chatter cut through the boiling rage even more, and Sarge slung an arm around both Tucker and Grif as the other Blues did their work on the device. The three of them, the worst offenders from earlier, just hung on to each other. Waiting with anticipation. Tucker was so giddy he couldn’t stay still, Grif was on the brink of just fully hugging someone, and Sarge had forgotten about his disdain for the teal vest that Tucker wore.

Eventually, just as the excitement started to dwindle, someone had tuned into Wash’s constant distress call. There was another resounding cheer throughout the team as the other end tried to figure out what the hell anybody was saying. Caboose was ushered away from Wash and he joined the other three linked up with glee. He was much bigger than any of them, but he slid in almost perfectly. Grif wrapped his arm around the area of his back he could reach.

“Hello? You’re breaking up!” The other side said. Wash managed to quell the laughter and Sarge and Tucker now promising to buy the other a drink the second they could.

“Yes, hi, we’re the Reds and Blues of Project Freelancer and we’re stranded, we-“

“Oh, hi Wash!” The other side said. Then it was even more chaos as Sarge pushed away from his boys to get to the microphone. Wash instinctively stood aside before he could be tackled off of the tower. Grif followed him, because who wouldn’t recognise that fruity uptalk?

“Donut!” Sarge and Grif called out at once, overwhelmed with joy. Never once before had Grif been so relieved to hear Donut, all those hours spent not even thinking about him hitting him full force in that minute. How he’d missed that idiot, his uncared for teeth in pain from how much he was smiling.

There was a flurry of coordinates, numbers, repeating them a few times because Donut couldn’t hear properly through the radio, then passing the conversation over to Doc for him to write it down for him. Wash had to help on their end, too, as Sarge was getting too frustrated and ruining the whole mood they’d jarred into. Grif curled his fingers around the sleeve cuff of Simmons’ jacket and pressed it to his cheek, to share this elation with him. Both of them were leaving this awful place, both of them could be free from this godforsaken canyon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh sorry for the delay! Had a lot of uni stuff to deal with >_< But we’re sorted now lol! Going to study journalism and creative writing for a joint honours at a uni in the East Midlands. ^.^ Yay! So sorry for the future when updates become even more sparse. ;P


	20. 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And make decisions that you think are your own.”  
> -Mikky Ekko, Who Are You Really?

Felix was going to pull out his own hair. He seriously was, because this was not going to fucking plan. He kicked a rock over instead, because it was easier and less painful. Locus must’ve been shooting him all sorts of weird looks through his helmet, but all Felix wanted to do was cause one hell of a scene. Just so Locus would show more of a reaction than simply sitting there.

“Calm down,” he said, “I don’t know why you’re getting this worked up.”

“Calm down? Calm down!? Locus, they’ve just made contact and could get outta here! Our whole plan! It could be torn to pieces!”

“Then we stop them,” Locus said as if it was that easy, “we don’t let them leave.”

“How will we do that, then?”

Locus fell into silence as he mapped out a plan. Felix went back to pacing back and forth kicking up bits of pebble as he went. They had contacted help too early, they were dangerously powerful as a group. And if they didn’t even try to help the poor people of Chorus... come on, Felix, think of something. What the hell could either of them do to not only prevent them from leaving, but to convince them to stay and fight? If their little maroon plan was going to work, they needed the sparks on tinder.

“We need to split them up,” Felix said, “but I think you already know that. How’ll we do it?”

“I’ll think of something. How will the weapon work with them splitting up?”

“Same as before, I think. If we give a handful of them to each side, then that’s enough fuel for the fires. Then yeah, same thing. We can pin it on the other team for both of them.”

“When will it be ready for phase two?”

“Give us three days tops. He’s ready for the injection, and Hancock has almost got the code ready. We still owe her a fuck ton for that broadcast. And you owe me five dollars, not that it has anything to do with anything, but it’s been about two weeks and you still haven’t paid me back.”

Locus didn’t respond, deep in thought about their next plan of action. Felix had stopped his movement now, staring at his feet as if to decipher directions ingrained on his toes. He didn’t know if Locus actually was going to figure out their next phase of attack, but he couldn’t help his mind from drifting to the project and the subject. Tinted an unfamiliar shade of red in his minds eye, he grinned beneath his helmet.

“He’s going to be invaluable,” he said to nobody in particular, “he’s going to make them rip each other to fucking shreds.”

He turned to look at Locus, whose head was shaking. He didn’t agree one bit, but Felix could feel the wildness take over his face. He knew Locus had his hesitations about the project, even if he was on board for it all. Nobody knew how effective the weapon would be, but even if it hadn’t the psychological impact Felix had promised his partner, he’d still be trained to fight to their standard. They’d still have power under their arm. Locus wasn’t keen on that. Felix didn’t care. This wasn’t up to Locus. This was up to him.

“You’re enjoying this far too much, Felix.”

“Maybe I am,” Felix said with his crazed smile palpable in his words. His arms were shaking as he went up to his helmet to decline a call from one of the men back at the facility. He was almost as close to the edge as their subject. He turned to look back over the cliff as he repeated, “maybe I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the next ten chapter, uploaded right along 19. :D


End file.
